4RLF 


ass 


(75 
05 


3 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

BEQUEST  OF 

Alice  R.  Hilgard 


\/ 


POEMS  OF  SOPHIE  JEWETT 


BY     SOPHIE    JEWETT 

GOD'S  TROUBADOUR.    The  Story 
of  Saint  Francis  of  Assisi 

8vo,  cloth.    By  mail,  $137 

POEMS.     Memorial  Edition 

1 2  mo,  cloth.    By  mail,  $137 

THE  PEARL 

Student's  Edition 

I6mo,  cloth.    By  mail,  45  cents 
Holiday  Edition 

1 2  mo,  cloth.     By  mail,  $1.10 

THOMAS  Y.  CROWELL   &   CO. 


THE  POEMS  OF 
SOPHIE  JEWETT 


MEMORIAL  EDITION 


NEW  YORK 
THOMAS  Y.  CROWELL  &  CO. 

PUBLISHERS 


COPYRIGHT,    1910, 
BY  THOMAS  Y.   CROWELL  &  Co. 


Published  December,  1910. 


THE   UNIVERSITY    PRESS,   CAMBRIDGE,    U.S.A. 


GIFT 


BIOGRAPHICAL  INTRODUCTION 

THE  poetry  of  Sophie  Jewett  is  too  wide 
in  its  appeal  to  need  interpretation 
through  biography;  and  one  would  turn  in 
vain  to  the  poems  for  a  story  of  her  life. 
Yet  those  who  have  felt  the  sway  of  her  art 
may  well  wish  for  a  knowledge  of  her  life 
in  its  personal  relations  and  surroundings; 
and  much  of  her  own  experience  lies  half- 
hidden  in  the  poems.  The  "little  fountain 
in  the  park"  sings  its  "summer  song"  before 
her  girlhood  home;  in  her  "coign  of  vantage" 
whence  "wheatfield  and  pasture  stretch  in 
sight"  she  spent  many  August  hours;  White 
Head  rises  sheer  from  the  waters  of  Casco  Bay 
on  which  she  used  to  sail;  and  she  heard  "the 
least  of  carols"  among  the  "undrifted  snows" 
of  the  Wellesley  meadows. 

Miss  Jewett  was  born  June  3,  1861,  in 
Moravia,  a  little  town  in  the  hilly  lake  coun- 
try of  central  New  York.  Among  the  found- 
ers of  this  village  in  early  pioneer  days  were 
her  grandfather,  Deacon  Josiah  Jewett,  and 
her  great-grandfather,  Cotton  Skinner,  whose 
daughter  Sophia  became  the  wife  of  Deacon 
Jewett.  The  family  are  of  old  New  England 


1R817612 


[vi] 

stock,  descendants  of  Joseph  Jewett  who, 
with  two  uncles,  came  to  this  country  in 
1638  and  settled  in  Rowley,  Massachusetts. 
Her  father,  Dr.  Charles  Carroll  Jewett,  married 
Ellen  Ransom  Burroughs,  daughter  of  John  S. 
Ransom  of  Salem,  Connecticut,  and  adopted 
daughter  of  an  uncle,  Daniel  Burroughs  of 
Buffalo,  New  York. 

The  family  homestead,  then  known  as 
"Grey  Cottage,"  lies  in  a  spot  of  unusual 
beauty,  between  orchard  and  garden,  at  the 
foot  of  "West  Hill."  Miss  Jewett's  earliest 
years  were  spent  in  this  paradise  for  children, 
and  the  vivid  pleasure  in  earth  and  sky,  in 
woods  and  water,  in  bird  notes  and  in  growing 
things,  which  permeates  her  poetry,  had  its 
root  in  the  outdoor  delights  of  her  childhood. 
Her  father's  practice  as  a  country  physician  ex- 
tended over  roads  which  climb  and  dip  among 
the  hills,  and  on  any  long  drive  one  of  the  chil- 
dren usually  bore  him  company,  often  this  little 
daughter.  The  children  had  a  wide  playground, 
although  its  limits  were  clearly  defined  by  the 
tall  old  walnut  tree  at  the  end  of  the  lane, 
the  great  chestnut  on  the  hillside,  and  the 
hedge  about  the  garden.  In  this  old-fashioned 
garden  they  made  dolls  of  daffodils,  poppies, 
or  pine-tassels;  and,  indeed,  they  here  found 
nearly  all  their  playthings  from  the  time  of 
crocuses  until  the  bright  leaves  fell.  The  world 


[vii] 

as  they  knew  it  was  bounded  by  the  circling 
line  of  hills  against  the  sky,  a  great  world  and 
old,  where  things  had  happened  long  ago, 
"when"  as  the  wondering  child  used  to  say, 
"I  was  a  little  thread  of  dust."  When  the 
oldest  of  the  three  sisters  began  to  study 
geography  the  two  younger  ones  laid  out  the 
entire  universe  according  to  her  instructions 
with  perfect  satisfaction  to  themselves.  One 
of  their  plays  was  to  journey  to  "the  very 
outside  edge  of  the  world*,"  and  to  climb  the 
hedge  which  shut  it  in;  on  the  world  side 
were  green  grass  and  flowers  and  sunshine,  on 
the  outside  darkness  and  tan  bark  —  an  image 
of  desolation  suggested  by  a  tan  yard  near 
the  village,  the  only  spot  in  that  fertile  valley 
where  nothing  could  grow.  The  little  poet, 
the  youngest  of  the  three,  more  than  half 
believed  in  this  and  could  see  the  picture 
clearly  in  after  years.  Bedtime  was  marked 
by  the  fireflies  in  the  garden  or  the  crows 
wheeling  about  the  top  of  the  giant  elm  in 
the  meadow,  "that  hour  when  birds  leave 
song  and  children  pray." 

Sorrow  came  early  to  this  home,  and  Dr. 
Jewett,  feeling  life  slipping  from  him  while 
his  children  were  very  young,  took  every  care 
to  impress  upon  them  not  only  high  ideals 
of  conduct  for  their  future  guidance,  but  also 
the  value  and  the  beauty  of  intellectual  pur- 


[  viii  ] 

suits,  holding  up  as  a  model  to  his  little  daugh- 
ters, after  she  was  gone,  their  lovely  and  gifted 
young  mother. 

Miss  Jewett's  parents  remained  always  real 
presences  in  her  life  and  in  the  lives  of  those 
nearest  to  her;  and  the  culture,  the  courtesy, 
the  courage,  and  the  devoutness  of  the  parents 
bore  fruit  in  the  life  of  the  daughter.  After 
the  death  of  Dr.  Jewett,  Buffalo  became  the 
home  of  his  children,  three  daughters  and 
a  son.  Miss  Jewett's  later  childhood  and  girl- 
hood were  spent  there,  and  there,  in  the  home 
of  her  brother,  she  died,  October  II,  1909, 
after  a  few  weeks  of  illness. 

In  early  girlhood  she  already  showed  an 
alert  mind  and  an  eager  desire  for  knowledge, 
a  desire  which  in  no  way  interfered  with  her 
enjoyment  of  lively  diversions.  Chief  among 
her  teachers  in  school  days  was  Mrs.  Eliza- 
beth A.  Forbes,  for  many  years  preceptress 
of  the  Buffalo  Seminary.  Much  inspiration 
and  counsel  came  to  her  from  her  minister, 
Dr.  Wolcott  Calkins,  whose  home  in  Buffalo, 
and  later  in  Newton,  Massachusetts,  she  called 
her  "second  home."  She  was  the  constant 
comrade  of  his  daughter  from  the  time  they 
met  as  little  girls,  and  their  companioning 
became  a  lifelong  friendship.  In  the  min- 
ister's study  the  two  children  discussed  grave 
mysteries  or  bent  together  over  books  in 


[ix] 

strange  tongues,  though  ever  ready  to  be  lured 
from  the  deep  window  seat  to  range  the  house 
or  to  climb  the  church  belfry.  At  home  she 
found  delight  in  the  poets,  and  essayists,  and 
historians  of  her  father's  library,  old  books 
that  stood  on  her  shelves  to  the  end.  During 
several  years,  in  which  she  was  not  allowed  to 
use  her  eyes,  the  oldest  sister  made  a  practice 
of  reading  aloud  to  her.  The  education  thus 
begun  was  throughout  life  gained  for  the  most 
part  directly  from  books;  in  later  years,  from 
the  great  libraries  of  London  and  Oxford, 
Florence  and  Rome  and  Boston.  Like  a  gen- 
eral she  planned  her  own  campaigns  of  the 
mind,  and  brought  into  her  scholarship  an  in- 
dividuality that  does  not  belong  to  the  wholly 
school-made  product. 

The  friends  of  her  girlhood  she  steadfastly 
cherished  when  time  brought  the  separations 
constraining  them  "  to  go  diverging  ways." 
She  was  little  more  than  twenty  when  first  she 
journeyed  to  England  and  Italy,  an  experi- 
ence which  gave  new  incentive  to  study  and 
filled  her  beauty-loving  soul  with  new  visions. 
Many  summers  and  two  whole  years  she  spent 
in  study  and  travel,  the  companion  almost  al- 
ways of  her  artist  sister.  Her  intimate  knowl- 
edge of  Italian  art,  history,  and  literature  was 
nurtured  by  these  sojourns  in  Italy,  and  many 
poems  as  well  as  all  the  prose  writings  of 


[x] 

the  last  ten  years  enshrine  the  country  which 
she  loved.  Chief  of  these  prose  writings  is 
"God's  Troubadour,"  published  in  book  form 
in  1910,  the  story  of  Saint  Francis,  told  for 
children,  in  which  the  Little  Poor  Man  lives  his 
life  before  us  from  his  boyhood  when  he  sings 
"gay  songs  of  love  and  war"  to  the  day  when 
he  dies,  "worn  and  weak"  yet  "happy  and 
high-hearted."  Notable  among  the  shorter 
papers  are  "The  Lover  of  Trees  in  Italy," 
published  in  1903,  in  Scribner's  Magazine,  and 
a  sketch,  "The  Land  of  Lady  Poverty,"  which 
appeared  in  The  Outlook  in  1905. 

In  1889,  already  a  poet  of  distinct  promise, 
Miss  Jewett  came  to  Wellesley  College  as 
instructor  in  English  Literature,  and  in  1897 
she  was  appointed  associate  professor.  Be- 
sides a  course,  carried  for  many  years,  in  the 
general  history  of  English  Literature,  she 
taught  courses  in  Spenser,  in  the  history  and 
structure  of  the  ballad,  and  in  the  poetry  of 
the  fourteenth  and  of  the  nineteenth  cen- 
turies. She  concentrated  her  attention,  in 
the  later  years,  on  the  three  lines  of  work  last 
named;  for,  lover  of  modern  poetry  as  she  was, 
she  still  firmly  maintained  the  necessity  of  a 
close  knowledge  of  our  early  language  and 
literature.  Her  teaching  was  that  of  the  critic 
who  is  also  the  creator,  of  the  scholar  who  is 
also  the  artist.  Her  knowledge  was  both  wide 


[xi] 

and  detailed,  and  her  passion  for  truth  made 
her  insistent  in  her  search  for  fact  and  inexor- 
able in  her  demand  for  accuracy.  Thus,  she 
would  spend  many  hours  of  many  days  over 
one  line  of  a  ballad  in  a  forgotten  dialect,  and 
would  move  heaven  and  earth  to  discover  the 
force  of  an  obscure  word-ending.  In  the  study 
of  the  poets  of  reflection,  particularly  those 
of  the  nineteenth  century,  she  discussed  with 
her  students  the  great  problems  of  thought 
and  of  life,  with  an  understanding  and  an 
insight  bred  of  her  philosophical  reading  and 
of  her  own  thinking.  And  always  her  teaching 
was  a  revelation  of  beauty  and  a  training  in  the 
art  of  opening  eye  and  ear.  A  true  and  vivid 
impression  of  her  is  given  in  the  words  of  one 
of  her  students,  now  herself  an  instructor  in 
literature:  "In  the  teaching  of  poetry  Miss 
Jewett  was  consummate.  Her  profound  and 
eager  scholarship  was  unimpeachable.  It  was 
because  her  facts  were  so  sure  a  foundation 
.  .  .  that  she  was  able  to  build  for  us  a  super- 
structure at  once  so  fair  and  so  enduring. 
Yet  we  were  never  permitted  to  mistake  .  .  . 
the  history  for  the  poetry.  I  shall  never  for- 
get the  gem-like  radiance  of  'The  Pearl'  as 
that  precious  poem  revealed  shapes  and  hues 
of  beauty  through  her  reading.  .  .  .  Miss 
Jewett  taught  poetry  more  poetically  than  any 
one  else  I  ever  knew." 


[xii] 

She  threw  herself  with  enthusiasm  into  the 
give-and-take  of  class  discussion,  and  had  an 
ardent  pleasure  in  the  work  of  her  students, 
spending  herself  with  lavish  generosity  on  indi- 
viduals. Yet  she  felt  keenly  the  discourage- 
ments of  teaching.  "It  is  quite  impossible" 
she  said,  "to  fulfil  one's  human  and  professional 
obligations  even  in  a  little  world  like  mine." 
She  was  vitally  interested  in  her  courses,  and 
devotedly  loyal  to  department  and  to  college; 
and  she  drew  courage,  inspiration,  and  hap- 
piness from  the  companionship  of  her  fellow- 
workers  who  were  also  her  close  friends.  Of 
her  radiant  hospitality,  in  these  years  of  her 
Wellesley  life,  many  might  bear  witness:  the 
nuthatches  and  squirrels  for  whom  she  kept 
open  house  at  her  window,  the  students  to 
whom,  by  her  wood  fire,  she  read  Celtic  lyrics 
or  Sicilian  ballads  or  the  prose  of  Pater,  and  the 
guests  who  were  stirred  and  quickened  by  the 
conversation,  grave  and  gay,  of  her  dinner-table. 

The  literary  fruits  of  Miss  Jewett's  teaching, 
in  addition  to  two  detailed  bibliographical  and 
topical  Outlines  for  the  use,  primarily,  of  her 
classes,  are  three:  first,  a  critical  edition,  pub- 
lished in  1901,  of  Tennyson's  "The  Holy 
Grail,"  with  an  Introduction  that  makes  care- 
ful comparison  of  the  modern  poem  with  the 
Perceval  Romances  and  with  the  mediaeval 
stories  of  the  early  history  and  quest  of  the 


Grail;  second,  a  translation,  "such  as  only  a 
poets'  poet  could  have  made,"  in  the  compli- 
cated original  stanza,  of  the  Middle  English 
poem,  "The  Pearl"  ;  and,  third,  a  collection, 
yet  to  be  published,  of  ballads  transcribed  and 
translated  from  many  Romance  languages  and 
dialects. 

Her  poems  came  first  as  swift  visions,  frag- 
mentary or  complete.  Sometimes,  alas,  the 
vision  vanished  beyond  recovery;  sometimes 
she  caught  it  in  its  fulness  and  translated  it 
into  winged  words;  more  often,  words  or  lines 
or  stanzas  would  be  lacking,  and  she  would 
search  for  them  through  patient  days  or 
months,  never  content  with  anything  less 
than  the  right  phrase,  word,  or  metre.  Most 
of  her  poems  were  written  and  re-written  in 
many  versions,  differing  often  very  little  ex- 
cept to  her  delicate  ear  and  her  keen  sense. 
A  life  so  rich  in  interest,  in  feeling,  and  in  friend- 
ship was  of  necessity  creative,  though  her 
academic  occupations  and  responsibilities  some- 
times checked  the  outflow  of  her  poetry.  In- 
deed, she  often  referred  laughingly  to  Lowell's 
complaint  of  the  distractions  which  teaching 
brings  to  the  poet,  as  if  a  brooding  hen  "  should 
have  to  mind  the  door  bell."  Yet  the  years 
of  teaching  bore  a  golden  harvest  of  poetry. 
In  1896,  she  published  the  first  collection  of 
her  lyrics,  "The  Pilgrim  and  Other  Poems," 


[xiv] 

a  volume  dedicated  to  the  beloved  memory  of 
her  brother-in-law,  Dr.  Henry  Hastings  Hunt. 
She  had  before  this  published  her  poetry  under 
her  mother's  name,  Ellen  Burroughs,  but  "The 
Pilgrim"  appeared  with  her  own  name.  Nine 
years  later,  in  1905,  a  second  collection  was 
made  in  the  volume  "Persephone  and  Other 
Poems,"  issued  by  the  Wellesley  College  De- 
partment of  English  Literature  for  the  college 
library  fund. 

Miss  Jewett  remained  always  singularly  shy 
about  her  poetry  and  very  self-critical.  The 
business  of  offering  her  verse  to  an  editor  was 
always  particularly  distasteful,  and  she  would 
keep  her  poems  in  her  desk  for  years  before 
sending  them  forth.  "If  you  honestly  would 
not  mind  being  post-office  for  me,"  she  wrote 
to  the  friend  whom  she  later  called  her  "oldest 
and  faithfulest  critic,"  "I  will  copy  the  poem 
and  send  it  to  you."  Even  so  mature  and 
perfect  a  poem  as  "The  Pilgrim"  reached  the 
publisher  through  this  happy  intermediary. 
Nevertheless,  she  had  always  a  sense  of  be- 
longing to  the  great  fellowship.  Long  ago  she 
sent  to  Richard  Watson  Gilder  her  poem  in- 
spired by  his  "New  Day,"  and  among  her 
papers  was  found  his  letter  of  acknowledg- 
ment: "Tell  Ellen  Burroughs  that  one  by  her 
called  a  poet  declares  that  she  is  a  true  poet 
and  must  not  let  her  golden  gift  be  lost." 


[XV  ] 

Miss  Jewett's  prose  as  well  as  her  poetry 
shows  the  strength  of  her  imagination.  "The 
sunset  glory  of  the  Arno  valley"  (of  which  she 
writes  in  "The  Lover  of  Trees  in  Italy") 
fairly  smites  our  eyes,  and  we  see  "the  fields 
of  rose-colored  vetch  and  wine-dark  clover, 
of  bright  poppies  and  pale  iris,"  past  which  she 
drove  "  into  a  world  where  acacias  in  full 
flower  stood  white  among  the  cypresses." 
This  picture,  intense  in  colour,  is  followed  by 
another  of  delicate  and  clear-cut  form  —  a 
picture  of  the  "characteristic  trees  in  Italy  — 
detached,  sharply  outlined,  impressive  from 
loneliness  and  contrast."  Her  imagination 
was  at  once  "the  bliss"  and  the  torment  of 
her  "solitude."  With  vivid  fidelity  she  re- 
called faces,  figures,  and  voices;  beauty  once 
seen  was  her  inalienable  possession.  But  in 
equally  unsparing  detail  of  colour  and  form,  of 
human  expression  and  impersonal  ugliness, 
she  saw  again  squalor  and  sickness  and  suffer- 
ing; and  with  unpitying  accuracy  her  imagina- 
tion made  her  the  witness  of  the  crimes  and 
catastrophes  of  which  she  read.  She  remem- 
bered words  as  accurately  as  scenes.  As  she 
talked,  half-turning  from  her  desk,  or  pausing 
on  a  walk  through  the  hilly  wood-ways  of 
Wellesley  to  mark  the  tender  spring  tints  of 
the  oak  branches  against  the  blue  of  the  lake, 
a  rapturous  line  from  Dante's  "Paradiso"  or 


[rvi] 

the  refrain  of  a  Chaucerian  ballade  would  come 
to  her  lips,  adding  beauty  to  the  world  without 
and  within.  And  to  vision  and  memory  she 
added  thought.  Swiftly,  sometimes,  but  more 
often  slowly  and  with  careful  consideration  of 
every  step,  she  reached  her  intellectual  con- 
victions by  the  force  of  her  thinking.  Of 
these  results  of  her  reasoning  she  often  had  a 
characteristic  distrust  due  to  the  peculiar 
wideness  of  her  intellectual  sympathy,  her 
understanding  of  opinions  which  she  did  not 
share,  her  ability  to  face  problems  from  di- 
vergent points  of  view. 

All  her  critics  have  spoken  of  the  many- 
sidedness  of  her  verse.  But  no  mere  reader  of 
the  poems  could  guess  at  the  richness  of  her 
nature  or  divine  the  refreshing  alternations  of 
mood  and  interest  which  all  her  friends  so  well 
knew.  Never  poet  could  be  on  occasion  more 
prosaic;  never  idealist  was  so  realistic;  never 
visionary  was  so  prompt  and  business-like,  and 
utterly  to  be  depended  on  in  the  ordering 
of  academic,  social,  and  household  detail. 
Most  of  the  prose  sketches  suggest  the  rich 
and  pathetic  quality  of  her  humour,  but  no 
record  could  ever  be  preserved  of  her  flashing 
wit  and  her  inimitable  repartee.  It  is  even 
harder  to  convey  by  words  the  sense  of  her 
bodily  presence.  There  was  something  in  her 
aspect  that  drew  the  eyes  and  hearts  of  those 


[  xvii  ] 

who  looked  on  her,  something  more  than 
beauty  of  feature,  stately  presence,  or  gracious 
ways.  One  of  her  colleagues  writes  of  "the 
refreshment  of  that  life-communicating  beauty, 
of  that  swift  smile,  that  buoyant  step,"  and 
those  who  saw  her  daily  would  be  the  first  to 
say  to  the  unknown  friend  "who  never  save 
in  fancy  saw  her  face"  that  sight  and  intimate 
acquaintance  would  have  brought  no  disillu- 
sion, and  that  the  reality  like  the  dream  would 
"set  the  heart  aglow." 

Sophie  Jewett  was,  in  truth,  friend  and  com- 
rade even  more  surely  than  poet  and  teacher. 
Though  delicately  scrupulous  never  to  disre- 
gard "the  quivering  barrier  line"  of  any  soul, 
she  was  divinely  quick  to  respond  to  an  appeal, 
spoken  or  unspoken,  for  inspiration,  counsel,  or 
help.  People  turned  to  her  in  practical  per- 
plexity, in  moral  struggle,  and  in  personal  need; 
and  her  discernment,  her  wholesome  strength, 
her  comprehension,  and  her  faith  did  not  fail 
them.  Her  life  centred  in  the  tenderness  and 
passion  of  her  sympathy  which  was  as  wide  as 
deep.  She  was  touched  not  only  by  the  griefs 
and  joys  of  those  closest  to  her,  and  not  only 
by  the  needs  of  those  with  whom  she  came  into 
personal  contact  of  helpfulness,  —  her  mission 
boys  in  the  old  Buffalo  days,  and,  later,  her 
Italian  friends  in  the  North  End  of  Boston,  — 
but  by  poverty  and  oppression,  by  sin  and  sor- 


[  xviii  ] 

row,  everywhere.  She  bore  in  her  heart  the 
sufferings  of  Russian  prisoners  in  the  fortress 
of  Peter  and  Paul,  of  refugees  from  the  earth- 
quake in  Messina.  For  this  outpouring  of 
sympathy  she  gladly  paid  the  heavy  price  of 
suffering  which  lost  no  pang  for  its  vicarious- 
ness.  "I  wish,"  she  wrote,  "that  instead  of 
being  so  good  to  me  God  would  be  good  to 
some  of  the  people  who  need." 

Yet  notwithstanding  her  sympathy  with 
suffering,  in  the  face  of  physical  pain  gallantly 
borne,  and  despite  the  constant  dissatisfaction 
with  her  work  due  to  her  unattainable  ideal 
of  perfection,  she  knew  the  joy  of  living:  the 
outdoor  world  remained  an  ever-present  source 
of  pleasure;  her  swift  and  keen  humour  was 
the  compensation  for  many  ills,  an  alchemy 
which  transformed  the  trials  and  mischances 
of  everyday  life;  her  happiness  in  friendship 
was  inexhaustible,  not  only  her  eager  delight 
in  the  gladness,  in  the  achievement,  of  her 
friends,  but  her  pure  joy  in  the  loving  inter- 
course of  spirit  with  spirit.  Her  hope  was 
deeply  disciplined,  and  she  distrusted  all  com- 
placent and  unheeding  optimism:  "It  is,"  she 
says,  "as  if  I  felt  the  pain  of  all  the  coming 
years."  But  she  was  not,  as  she  truly  pro- 
tested, "a  pessimist.  I  begin  to  believe,"  she 
added,  "  that  sorrow  is  the  one  thing  that  does 
not  make  people  pessimistic."  Her  courage 


[xix] 

and  her  faith  were  indeed  deeply  rooted.  Sine 
dolore  non  vivitur  in  amore,  she  quoted  from 
Thomas  a  Kempis,  "and  it  is  better,  in  spite 
of  the  pain,  so  to  live."  None  of  the  poems 
more  truly  express  her  deepest  self  than  the 
poems  of  faith  and  of  vision.  For  deeper  than 
her  feeling  of  the  beauty,  the  love,  and  the 
misery  of  this  world,  underlying  her  experi- 
ence of  its  separations,  was  her  abiding  con- 
sciousness of  unbroken  communion  and  of 
the  endlessness  of  the  life  of  the  spirit.  "I 
am  almost  surprised"  she  wrote  a  long  time 
ago,  "to  find  the  distinctness  in  my  mind  of 
the  picture  of  the  view  from  your  windows. 
I  see  the  objects  that  you  see,  I  almost  feel  the 
air  that  you  breathe.  May  it  not  be  the  same 
in  the  spiritual  things  of  our  friendship?  And 
...  if  the  distances  of  earth  are  powerless  to 
separate  heart  from  heart,  why  should  that  little 
space  between  this  'seen'  and  that  *  unseen' 
be  impassable?"  Twenty  years  later  she  spoke 
the  same  thought  in  words  that  are  the  posses- 
sion of  all  who  know  and  love  her:  — 

Yet,  since  I  need  nor  touch  nor  sight 
Nor  spoken  word,  however  dear, 

To  read  your  thought  and  will  aright, 
To  know  your  spirit,  now  and  here, 
What  has  our  fellowship  to  fear? " 


CONTENTS 


The  poems  indicated  by  a  star  (*)  were  first  published 
in  "The  Pilgrim  and  Other  Poems"  ;  those  marked  by  a 
double  star  (**)  first  appeared  in  "  Persephone  and  Other 
Poems." 

PORTRAIT;   FROM  A  PHOTOGRAPH,  1889   Frontispiece 

BIOGRAPHICAL  INTRODUCTION ^v 

I.  THE  PILGRIM 3 

The  Century,  1894. 

,11.  SONNETS: 

THE  SOLDIER* 9 

A  FRIENDSHIP 10 

The  Century,  1890 
SEPARATION II 

Scribner's  Magazine,  1887 

ABSENT* 12 

THUS  FAR 13 

The  Overland  Monthly,  1887 
THOUGHTS 14 

The  Congregationalist,  1893 
CHRISTMAS 15 

The  St.  Louis  Observer,  1893 

SIDNEY  LANIER* 16 

THAMYRIS** 17 

IN  VITA  DI    MADONNA    LAURA  :    XXII 
(From  the  Italian  of  Petrarch) 1 8 


[  xxii  ] 

PAGE 

A  PETITION 19 

LIMITATIONS 20 

To  PAIN 21 

To  CATHERINE  BRESHKOVSKY 22 

The  Outlook,  1909 

III.  RONDEAUS: 

IF  SPIRITS  WALK 25 

The  Century,  1893 

I  SAW  LOVE'S  EYES* 26 

ACROSS  THE  FIELDS  * 27 

I  SPEAK  YOUR  NAME* 28 

MlGNONNE* 29 

IV    SONGS: 

ARMISTICE 33 

Scribner's  Magazine,  1892 

EVEN-SONG* 34 

SONG:  THY  FACE  I  HAVE  SEEN     ....  35 

Scribner's  Magazine,  1888 
SONG:  O  LOVE  THOU  ART  WINGED  AND 

SWIFT* 36 

SONG:  I  COME  ACROSS  THE  SEA*  ....  38 
SONG:  LAUGHTER  THAT  RINGETH  ALL  DAY 

LONG 39 

Scribner's  Magazine,  1887 

SONG:  LADY  MINE* 41 

SONGS  FROM  AN  UNPRINTED  POEM:  * 

I.  HAST  SEEN  THE  BLUE  WAVE      .    .  42 

II.  O  DAY  THOU  ART  so  WEARY  LONG  43 

BUD  AND  ROSE* 44 

A  WINTER  SONG* 45 

To  A  CHILD 47 

Scribner's  Magazine,  1905 

A  SONG  IN  SPRING** 48 

A  SONG  IN  SUMMER** 49 

WITH  A  DAFFODIL** 50 


[  xxiii  ] 

PAGE 

SONG:  MY  HEART  is  AS  A  STILL  GRASS- 
HIDDEN  NEST      ,   .    .       51 

Scribner's  Magazine,  1904. 

APRIL  (From  the  French  of  Remy  Belleau)  .       52 
The  Wellesley  Magazine,  1895 

RUDEL'S  SONG  (From  the  French  of  Edmond 
Rostand) 53 

LA  SIRENETA'S  SONG  (From  the  Italian  of 
Gabriele  D'Annunzio) 55 

THE  SONG  OF  THE  SUN  (From  the  Italian  of 
St.  Francis  of  Assisi) 58 

NATIVITY  SONG   (Adapted  from  the  Latin 
of  Jacopone  da  Todi)      ........       60 

THE  LEAST  OF  CAROLS** 61 

V.  OTHER  LYRICS: 

WHEN  BEAUTY  DIES 65 

Harper's  Magazine,  1904 

THOUGH  UNSEEN* 67 

AWAKENED 68 

Harper's  Magazine,  1904 

DEFEATED 70 

A  DREAM 71 

Scribner's  Magazine,  1888 

SLEEP* 72 

SANGRAAL* 73 

GABRIEL* 74 

MIDWINTER 76 

The  Century,  1902 

EASTER 77 

Scribner's  Magazine,  1909 

IN  THE  DARK 78 

VISION 79 

BRIEF  LIFE , 80 

Scribner's  Magazine,  1909 

OF  TRANSIENT  BEAUTY 8 1 

Scribner's  Magazine,  1910 


[  xxiv  ] 

PAGE 

POMPEII  (Unfinished) 82 

AN  EXILE'S  GARDEN 83 

FROM  OVER-SEA* 84 

SUNSET  ON  THE  CAMPAGNA** 86 

VENICE  IN  APRIL* 88 

IN  UMBRIA**      91 

WHITE  HEAD      94 

The  New  England  Magazine,  1893 

VESPERS 97 

Scribner's  Magazine,  1889 

IN  HARVEST** 99 

WHEN    NATURE    HATH    BETRAYED    THE 

HEART  THAT  LOVED  HER* 100 

IN  APRIL 101 

The  Wellesley  Magazine,  1895 

ACROSS  THE  BORDER 102 

The  Century,  1903 

FEBRUARY* 103 

AT  SEA 104 

The  Wellesley  Magazine,  1894 

A  LAND-WIND* 105 

THE  WHITE  STORM 106 

RIVER  AND  BIRD 108 

The  Christian  Union,  1883 

DESTINY* no 

The  Congregationalist,  1893 

A  JOURNEY in 

The  Cosmopolitan,  1891 

GHOSTS* 113 

ANSWERED 114 

THE  WATCHER  AND  THE  WIND*   ....  115 

A  SMILING  DEMON  OF  NOTRE  DAME*     .  116 

PAN  AND  PSYCHE* 117 

THE  MADONNA 118 

Scribner's  Magazine,  1888 

HOLY  EARTH** 120 

A  GREETING* 122 


[xxv] 

PAGE 

COMMUNION* 124 

ENTRE  Nous* 125 

INSCRIPTIONS: 126 

I.   IN  A  BOOK  OF  OLD  SONGS 

II.    IN    A    BOOK   THAT  YOU  HAVE   READ 

Scribner's  Magazine,  1904 

WITH  A  COPY  OF  WHARTON'S  "  SAPPHO  "  **     128 
A  HEARTH-FIRE  VERSE 129 

The  Wellesley  Magazine,  1905 
FOR  A  BIRTHDAY 130 

The  Wellesley  Magazine,  1908 
To 132 

The  Wellesley  Prelude,  1889 

METEMPSYCHOSIS* 133 

A  LETTER* 136 

TO-DAY'S  DAUGHTER.*     Written  for  the 
Graduating    Class    at    Smith    College, 

June,  1885 139 

THE  COMMON  CHORD* 147 

SIDNEY  LANIER      149 

The  Literary  World ,^  1890 

To  RICHARD  WATSON  GILDER 151 

To  A  DEAD  POET 153 

The  Outlook,  1903 
GOD  AND  THE  SINGER** 155 

VI.  THE  SHEPHERDS 161 

The  Churchman,  1906 

VII.  THE  DWARF'S  QUEST,  A  BALLAD**  .   .     167 

VIII.  THE  DAUGHTER  OF  JORIO,  A  PAS- 
TORAL TRAGEDY  (From  the  Italian 
of  Gabriele  D'Annunzio,  Unfinished)  .  .  179 


THE  PILGRIM 


THE  PILGRIM 

"Such  a  palmer  ne'er  was  scene, 
Lesse  Love  himselfe  had  palmer  beene." 

NEVER  TOO  LATE. 

PILGRIM  feet,  pray  whither  bound? 
Pilgrim  eyes,  pray  whither  bent? 
Sandal-shod  and  travel-gowned, 
Lo,  I  seek  the  way  they  went 
Late  who  passed  toward  Holy  Land. 

Pilgrim,  it  was  long  ago; 
None  remains  who  saw  that  band; 
Grass  and  forest  overgrow 
Every  path  their  footing  wore. 
Men  are  wise;  they  seek  no  more 
Roads  that  lead  to  Holy  Land. 

Proud  his  look,  as  who  should  say: 
/  shall  find  where  lies  the  way. 

Pilgrim,  thou  art  fair  of  face, 
Staff  and  scrip  are  not  for  thee; 
3 


[4] 

Gentle  pilgrim,  of  thy  grace, 
Leave  thy  quest,  and  bide  with  me. 
Love  shall  serve  thee,  joy  shall  bless; 
Thou  wert  made  for  tenderness : 
God's  green  world  is  fair  and  sweet; 
Not  o'er  sea  and  Eastern  strand, 
But  where  friend  and  lover  meet 
Lies  the  way  to  Holy  Land. 

Low  his  voice,  his  lashes  wet: 
One  day  if  God  will  —  not  yet. 

Pilgrim,  pardon  me  and  heed. 
Men  of  old  who  took  that  way 
Went  for  fame  of  goodly  deed, 
Or,  if  sooth  the  stories  say, 
Sandalled  priest,  or  knight  in  selle, 
Flying  each  in  pain  and  hate, 
Harassed  by  stout  fiends  of  hell, 
Sought  his  crime  to  expiate. 
Prithee,  Pilgrim,  go  not  hence; 
Clear  thy  brow,  and  white  thy  hand, 
What  shouldst  thou  with  penitence? 
Wherefore  seek  to  Holy  Land  ? 

Stern  the  whisper  on  his  lip : 
Sin  and  shame  are  in  my  scrip. 


[5] 

Pilgrim,  pass,  since  it  must  be; 
Take  thy  staff,  and  have  thy  will; 
Prayer  and  love  shall  follow  thee; 
I  will  watch  thee  o'er  the  hill. 
What  thy  fortune  God  doth  know; 
By  what  paths  thy  feet  must  go. 
Far  and  dim  the  distance  lies, 
Yet  my  spirit  prophesies : 
Not  in  vigil  lone  and  late, 
Bowed  upon  the  tropic  sand, 
But  within  the  city  gate, 
In  the  struggle  of  the  street, 
Suddenly  thine  eyes  shall  meet 
His  whose  look  is  Holy  Land. 

Smiled  the  pilgrim,  sad  and  sage: 
Long  must  be  my  pilgrimage. 

1891 


SONNETS 


THE  SOLDIER 

"Non  vi  si  pensa  quanto  sangue  costa." 

PARADISO  xxix.  91. 

THE  soldier  fought  his  battle  silently. 
Not  his  the  strife  that  stays  for  set  of  sun; 

It  seemed  this  warfare  never  might  be  done; 

Through  glaring  day  and  blinding  night  fought  he. 
There  came  no  hand  to  help,  no  eye  to  see; 

No  herald's  voice  proclaimed  the  fight  begun; 

No  trumpet,  when  the  bitter  field  was  won, 

Sounded  abroad  the  soldier's  victory. 
As  if  the  struggle  had  been  light,  he  went, 

Gladly,  life's  common  road  a  little  space; 

Nor  any  knew  how  his  heart's  blood  was  spent; 
Yet  there  were  some  who  after  testified 

They  saw  a  glory  grow  upon  his  face; 

And  all  men  praised  the  soldier  when  he  died. 

1894 


[10] 


A  FRIENDSHIP 

SMALL  fellowship  of  daily  commonplace 
We  hold  together,  dear,  constrained  to  go 
Diverging  ways.     Yet  day  by  day  I  know 
My  life  is  sweeter  for  thy  life's  sweet  grace; 

And  if  we  meet  bu£  for  a  moment's  space, 

Thy  touch,  thy  word,  sets  all  the  world  aglow. 
Faith  soars  serener,  haunting  doubts  shrink  low, 
Abashed  before  the  sunshine  of  thy  face. 

Nor  press  of  crowd,  nor  waste  of  distance  serves 
To  part  us.    Every  hush  of  evening  brings 
Some  hint  of  thee,  true-hearted  friend  of  mine; 

And  as  the  farther  planet  thrills  and  swerves 

When  towards  it  through  the  darkness  Saturn  swings, 
Even  so  my  spirit  feels  the  spell  of  thine. 

1888 


[II] 


SEPARATION 

ALONG  the  Eastern  shore  the  low  waves  creep, 
Making  a  ceaseless  music  on  the  sand, 
A  song  that  gulls  and  curlews  understand, 
The  lullaby  that  sings  the  day  to  sleep. 

A  thousand  miles  afar,  the  grim  pines  keep 
Unending  watch  upon  a  shoreless  land, 
Yet  through  their  tops,  swept  by  some  wizard  hand, 
The  sound  of  surf  comes  singing  up  the  steep. 

Sweet,  thou  canst  hear  the  tidal  litany; 
J,  mid  the  pines  land-wearied,  may  but  dream 
Of  the  far  shore;  but  though  the  distance  seem 

Between  us  fixed,  impassable,  to  me 

Cometh  thy  soul's  voice,  chanting  love's  old  theme, 
And  mine  doth  answer,  as  the  pines  the  sea. 

1885 


[12] 


ABSENT 

MY  friend,  I  need  thee  in  good  days  or  ill, 
I  need  the  counsel  of  thy  larger  thought; 
And  I  would  question  all  the  year  has  brought  — 
What  spoil  of  books,  what  victories  of  will; 

But  most  I  long  for  the  old  wordless  thrill, 

When  on  the  shore,  like  children  picture- taught, 
We  watched  each  miracle  the  sweet  day  wrought, 
While  the  tide  ebbed,  and  every  wind  was  still. 

Dear,  let  it  be  again  as  if  we  mused, 

We  two,  with  never  need  of  spoken  word 
(While  the  sea's  fingers  twined  among  the  dulse, 

And  gulls  dipped  near),  our  spirits  seeming  fused 
In  the  great  Life  that  quickens  wave  and  bird, 
Our  hearts  in  happy  rhythm  with  the  world-pulse. 

March  30,  1889 


[13] 


THUS  FAR 

BECAUSE  my  life  has  lain  so  close  to  thine, 
Because  our  hearts  have  kept  a  common  beat, 
Because  thine  eyes  turned  towards  me  frank  and 

sweet  - 
Reveal  sometimes  thine  untold  thoughts  to  mine, 

Think  not  that  I,  by  curious  design, 
Or  over-step  of  too  impetuous  feet, 
Could  desecrate  thy  soul's  supreme  retreat, 
Could  disregard  its  quivering  barrier-line. 

Only  a  simple  Levite,  I,  who  stand 

On  the  world's  side  of  the  most  holy  place, 
Till,  as  the  new  day  glorifies  the  east, 

One  come  to  lift  the  veil  with  reverent  hand 
And  enter  with  thy  soul's  soul  face  to  face,  — 
He  whom  thy  God  shall  call  to  be  high  priest. 

1883 


[Hi 


THOUGHTS 

THE  morning  brought  a  stranger  to  my  door. 
I  know  not  whence  such  feet  as  his  may  stray, 
From  what  still  heights,  along  what  star-set  way. 
A  child  he  seemed,  yet  my  eyes  fell  before 

His  eyes  Olympian.     I  did  implore 
Him  enter,  linger  but  one  golden  day 
To  bless  my  house.     He  passed,  he  might  not  stay, 
And  though  I  call  with  tears,  he  comes  no  more. 

At  noon  there  stole  a  beggar  to  my  gate; 
Of  subtle  tongue,  the  porter  he  beguiled. 
His  creeping,  evil  steps  my  house  defiled. 

I  flung  him  scornful  alms,  I  bade  him  straight 
To  leave  me.     Swift  he  clutched  my  fee  and  smiled, 
Yet  went  not  forth,  nor  goes,  despite  my  hate. 


CHRISTMAS 

THE  Christmas  bells  ring  discord  overhead; 
The  Christmas  lights  flash  cold  across  the  snow; 
The  angel-song  fell  silent  long  ago; 
Nor  seer,  nor  silly  shepherd  comes,  star-led, 

To  kneel  to-night  beside  a  baby's  bed. 

Peace  is  not  yet,  and  wrong  and  want  and  woe 

Cry  in  the  city  streets,  and  love  is  slow, 

And  sin  is  sleek  and  swift  and  housed  and  fed. 

Dear  Lord,  our  faith  is  faint,  our  hearts  are  sore; 
Our  prayers  are  as  complaints,  our  songs  as  cries; 
Fain  would  we  hear  the  angel-voice  once  more, 

And  see  the  Star  still  lead  along  the  skies; 
Fain  would,  like  sage  and  simple  folk  of  yore, 
Watch  where  the  Christ-child  smiles  in  Mary's  eyes. 


SIDNEY  LANIER 

DIED  SEPTEMBER  7,  1881 

THE  South  wind  brought  a  voice;  was  it  of  bird? 
Or  faint-blown  reed?  or  string  that  quivered 
long? 

A  haunting  voice  that  woke  into  a  song 

Sweet  as  a  child's  low  laugh,  or  lover's  word. 
We  listened  idly  till  it  grew  and  stirred 

With  throbbing  chords  of  joy,  of  love,  of  wrong; 

A  mighty  music,  resonant  and  strong; 

Our  hearts  beat  higher  for  that  voice  far-heard. 
The  Southwind  brought  a  shadow,  purple-dim, 

It  swept  across  the  warm  smile  of  the  sun  ; 

A  sudden  shiver  passed  on  field  and  wave; 
The  grasses  grieved  along  the  river's  brim. 

We  knew  the  voice  was  silent,  the  song  done; 

We  knew  the  shadow  smote  across  a  grave. 


THAMYRIS 

And  they  took  from  him  his  high  gift  of  song,  so  that  he    forgo 
his  harping.  —  ILIAD  II. 

OF  strong  hands,  as  at  first  that  hew  and  build; 
Of  evil  hearts  and  brave  that  fight  and  slay; 
Of  feast  and  dance,  birthday  and  marriage  day; 
Of  passion,  loss,  and  joy  of  love  fulfilled 
God's  singers  make  sweet  verse,  and  hearts  song- 
thrilled 

Are  keener  set  to  suffer,  strive,  and  play. 
This  poet,  only,  gives  no  heed  alway, 
Though  earth  with  life  be  loud,  with  death  be 

stilled. 

He  strays,  a  shadow,  wistful,  through  the  land, 
His  eyes  unseeing  and  his  head  uncrowned; 
No  song  he  makes  of  love,  nor  war,  nor  wine; 
No  hymn,  no  prayer;    there   comes  no  mastering 

sound 

From  that  sweet  harp  forgotten  of  his  hand, 
Left  to  the  vagrant  fingering  of  the  vine. 

1899 


IN  VITA   DI  MADONNA  LAURA:  XXII 

FROM   THE    ITALIAN    OF    PETRARCH 

Solo  e  pensoso  i  piu  deserti  campi. 

ALONE  and  thoughtful,  some  most  desert  field 
I  measure  with  reluctant  steps  and  slow; 
Or  strive  by  shy,  untrodden  paths  to  go, 
Watchful  and  fugitive.     No  other  shield 

Save  flight  I  find,  who  fain  would  keep  concealed 
From  the  world's  open  scrutiny  the  glow 
Beneath  the  ashes  of  my  smile.     I  know 
How  lightly  were  my  heart's  red  fire  revealed. 

I  think  that  even  hill  and  mountain  peak, 
River  and  forest  know  of  what  sad  kind 
Is  this  my  hidden  life;  and  yet  I  find 

That,  whatsoever  steepest  way  I  walk, 

And  wildest,  Love  himself  that  road  will  seek, 
Always,  and  he  and  I  together  talk. 


[19] 


A  PETITION 

WE  looked  to  Joy  as  furrows  to  the  sun 
In  sowing  time.     Of  that  relentless  heat 

That  spares  the  blade  to  blast  the  ripened  wheat 

How  should  we  know,  with  summer  but  begun? 
We  followed  Joy,  nor  knew  how  swiftly  run 

The  untraceable  and  unreturning  feet. 

That  quest  I  have  no  courage  to  repeat; 

I  am  content;  I  ask  no  grace  save  one: 
Lord,  I  will  bear  my  own  heart's  utmost  pain; 

I  will  go  softly,  with  bent,  humbled  head; 

I  will  not  strive,  nor  cry,  nor  pray  again, 
If  Thou  wilt  hear  in  this  my  need  extreme, 

Wilt  give  me  once,  give  me  though  in  a  dream, 

To  see  the  eyes  I  love  be  comforted. 

1896 


[20] 


LIMITATIONS 

GOD   made  man  to  be  poet,  priest  and  seer; 
God  sets  no  snare  to  wound  the  spirit's  wing, 
But  yields  His  thought  to  our  interpreting 
In  characters  of  sunlight,  written  clear;  — 

Nay  more,  who  walks  in  densest  shade  may  hear 
From  every  rock  the  holy  echoes  ring, 
May  bend  the  knee  where  forest  thrushes  sing, 
And  know  the  Voice  Eternal  at  his  ear. 

Truth  yet  diviner,  deep  within  the  mind  — 
His  revelation  since  the  world  began  — 
Hath  God  denied  not  to  His  friend.     But  man 

Fain  gropes  in  dust  the  infinite  to  find, 
Fain  peers  afar  the  immanent  to  scan. 
Forgive  him,  Father,  whom  Thy  light  doth  blind. 


[21] 


TO  PAIN 

NOT  by  the  minutes  of  thin  torture  spun, 
Not  by  the  nights  whose  hours  halt  and  slip 

back, 

Not  by  the  days  when  golden  noon  turns  black 
Hast  thou  dismayed  me;  but  that,  one  by  one, 

Pale  shadows  pass  me  of  my  tasks  undone, 

While,  like  a  victim  loosed  from  wheel  and  rack, 
With  will  unnerved,  breath  scant  and  sinew  slack, 
I  droop,  where  glad  folk  labour  in  the  sun. 

And  yet,  O  winged  Inquisitor,  return, 

Stay,  though  I  cringe  and  cry  and  plead  for  grace, 
If  thou  hast  more  to  teach,  still  would  I  learn; 

I  choose,  even  with  faint  heart  and  quivering  lip, 
Some  place  in  the  great,  patient  fellowship 
Of  those  that  know  the  light  upon  thy  face. 

1904 


[22] 


TO  CATHERINE  BRESHKOVSKY 

IN  THE  FORTRESS  OF  PETER  AND  PAUL 

THE  liberal  summer  wind  and  sky  and  sea, 
For  thy  sake,  narrow  like  a  prison  cell 
-  About  the  wistful  hearts  that  love  thee  well 
And  have  no  power  to  comfort  nor  set  free. 
They  dare  not  ask  what  these  hours  mean  to  thee: 
Delays  and  silences  intolerable? 
The  joy  that  seemed  so  near,  that  soared,  and  fell, 
Become  a  patient,  tragic  memory? 
From  prison,  exile,  age,  thy  gray  eyes  won 
Their  gladness,  Mother,  as  of  youth,  and  sun, 
And  love;  and  though  thy  hero  heart,  at  length 
Tortured  past  thought,  break  for  thy  children's  tears, 
Thy  mortal  weariness  shall  be  their  strength, 
Thy  martyred  hope  their  vision  through  far  years. 

August,  1909 


RONDEAUS 


"IF  SPIRITS  WALK" 

"I  have  heard  (but  not  believed)  the  spirits  of  the  dead 
May  walk   again." 

WINTER'S  TALE. 

IF  spirits  walk,  Love,  when  the  night  climbs  slow 
The  slant  footpath  where  we  were  wont  to  go, 
Be  sure  that  I  shall  take  the  self-same  way 
To  the  hill-crest,  and  shoreward,  down  the  gray, 
Sheer,  gravelled  slope,  where  vetches  straggling  grow. 

Look  for  me  not  when  gusts  of  winter  blow, 
When  at  thy  pane  beat  hands  of  sleet  and  snow; 
I  would  not  come  thy  dear  eyes  to  affray, 
If  spirits  walk. 

But  when,  in  June,  the  pines  are  whispering  low, 
And  when  their  breath  plays  with  thy  bright  hair  so 
As  some  one's  fingers  once  were  used  to  play  — 
That  hour  when  birds   leave  song,  and  children 

pray, 

Keep  the  old  tryst,  sweetheart,  and  thou  shalt  know 
If  spirits  walk. 
25 


[26] 


I  SAW  LOVE'S  EYES 

I  SAW  Love's  eyes,  I  saw  Love's  crowned  hair; 
I  heard  Love's  voice,  a  song  across  the  air; 
The  glad-of-heart  were  of  Love's  royal  train; 
Sweet- throated  heralds  cried  his  endless  reign, 
And  where  his  garment  swept,  the  earth  grew  fair. 

Along  Love's  road  one  walked  whose  feet  were  bare 
And  bleeding;  no  complaint  he  made,  nor  prayer, 
Yet  dim  and  wistful  as  a  child's  in  pain 
I  saw  Love's  eyes. 

I  groped  with  Love  where  shadow  lay,  and  snare; 
I  climbed  with  Love  the  icy  mountain  stair; 

The  wood  was  dark,  the  height  was  hard  to  gain; 

The  birds  were  songless  and  the  flowers  were  slain; 
Yet  brave  alway  above  my  heart's  despair 
I  saw  Love's  eyes. 

November  21,  1895 


[27] 


ACROSS  THE  FIELDS 

ACROSS  the  fields,  the  happy  fields  that  lay 
Unfaded  yet,  one  visionary  day 
We  walked  together,  and  the  world  was  sweet. 
Each  heard  the  whisper  neither  might  repeat, 
Love's  whisper  underneath  our  light  word-play. 

When  fields  were  brown,  when  skies  hung  close  and 

gray, 
Alone  I  walked  the  dear  familiar  way, 

With  eager  heart,  with  hurrying  love-led  feet, 
Across  the  fields. 

O  life  that  hath  so  bitter  words  to  say! 
O  heart  so  sore  impatient  of  delay! 

O  wistful  hands  that  reach  and  may  not  meet! 

O  eyes  that  yearn  for  answering  eyes  to  greet! 
The  summer  comes.     It  wins  me  not  to  stray 
Across  the  fields. 


[28] 


I  SPEAK  YOUR  NAME 

I  SPEAK  your  name  in  alien  ways,  while  yet 
November  smiles  from  under  lashes  wet. 
In  the  November  light  I  see  you  stand 
Who  love  the  fading  woods  and  withered  land, 
Where  Peace  may  walk,  and  Death,  but  not  Regret. 

The  year  is  slow  to  alter  or  forget; 
June's  glow  and  autumn's  tenderness  are  met. 
Across  the  months  by  this  swift  sunlight  spanned, 
I  speak  your  name. 

Because  I  loved  your  golden  hair,  God  set 
His  sea  between  our  eyes.     I  may  not  fret, 

For,  sure  and  strong,  to  meet  my  soul's  demand, 
Comes  your  soul's  truth,  more  near  than  hand  in 

hand; 

And  low  to  God,  who  listens,  Margaret, 
I  speak  your  name. 

November  20,  1892 


[29J 


MIGNONNE 

FOURTEENTH   CENTURY   FORM 

* 

MIGNONNE,  whose  face  bends   low  for  my 
caressing, 

New  and  unknown  to-night  thy  beauty  seemeth; 
Dimly  I  read  thine  eyes  as  one  who  dreameth. 

The  moonlight  yester-eve  fell  soft  in  blessing, 

That  coldly  now  across  thy  bright  hair  gleameth; 

Mignonne,  whose  face  bends  low  for  my  caressing, 
New  and  unknown  to-night  thy  beauty  seemeth. 

As  penitent,  low-voiced,  his  sins  confessing, 

Pleads  where  the  light  of  the  high  altar  streameth, 
I  speak  to  thee,  whose  love  my  love  redeemeth. 

Mignonne,  whose  face  bends  low  for  my  caressing, 
New  and  unknown  to-night  thy  beauty  seemeth; 
Dimly  I  read  thine  eyes  as  one  who  dreameth. 


SONGS 


ARMISTICE 

THE  water  sings  along  our  keel, 
The    wind    falls    to    a   whispering 

breath; 
I  look  into  your  eyes  and  feel 

No  fear  of  life  or  death; 
So  near  is  love,  so  far  away 
The  losing  strife  of  yesterday. 

We  watch  the  swallow  skim  and  dip; 

Some  magic  bids  the  world  be  still; 
Life  stands  with  finger  upon  lip; 

Love  hath  his  gentle  will; 
Though  hearts  have  bled,  and  tears  have 

burned, 
The  river  floweth  unconcerned. 

We  pray  the  fickle  flag  of  truce 
Still  float  deceitfully  and  fair; 

Our  eyes  must  love  its  sweet  abuse; 
This  hour  we  will  not  care, 

Though  just  beyond  to-morrow's  gate, 

Arrayed  and  strong,  the  battle  wait. 
1891  33 


[34] 


EVEN-SONG 

COME,  O  Love,   while  the   far    stars 
whiten, 

Gathering,  growing,  momently; 
Thou,  who  art  star  of  stars,  to  lighten 
One  dim  heart  that  waiteth  thee. 

Speak,  O  Love,  for  the  silence  presses, 
Bowing  my  spirit  like  a  fear; 

Thou,  whose  words  are  as  caresses, 
Sweet,  sole  voice  that  I  long  to  hear. 


[35] 


T 


SONG 

HY  face  I  have  seen  as  one  seeth 

A  face  in  a  dream. 
Soft  drifting  before  me  as  drifteth 

A  leaf  on  the  stream : 
A  face  such  as  evermore  fleeth 

From  following  feet, 
A  face  such  as  hideth  and  shifteth 

Evasive  and  sweet. 

Thy  voice  I  have  heard  as  one  heareth 

Afar  and  apart, 
The  wood-thrush  that  rapturous  poureth 

The  song  of  his  heart; 
Who  heedeth  is  blest,  but  who  neareth 

In  wary  pursuit, 
May  see  where  the  singer  upsoareth, 

The  forest  is  mute. 


[36] 


SONG 

LOVE,  thou  art  winged  and  swift, 

Yet  stay  with  me  evermore!" 
And  I  guarded  my  house  with  bolt  and  bar 
Lest  Love  fly  forth  at  the  door. 

Without,  in  the  world,  't  was  cold, 

While  Love  and  I  together 
Laughed  and  sang  by  my  red  hearth-fire, 

Nor  knew  it  was  winter  weather. 

Sweet  Love  would  lull  me  to  sleep, 

In  his  tireless  arm  caressed; 
His  shadowing  wings  and  burning  eyes 

Like  night  and  stars  wrought  rest. 

And  ever  the  beat  of  Love's  heart 

As  a  chime  rang  at  my  ear; 
And  ever  Love's  bending,  beautiful  face 

Covered  me  close  from  fear. 


[37] 

Was  it  long  ere  I  waked  alone? 

A  snow-drift  whitened  the  floor; 
I  saw  spent  ashes  upon  my  hearth 

And  Death  in  my  open  door. 

1893 


[38] 


I 


SONG 

COME  across  the  sea, 

(O  ship,  ride  fast) ! 
True  heart,  I  sail  to  thee; 

Sail  home  at  last. 
Yet  ships  there  are  that  never  reach  their 

haven, 

Though  glad  they  sail; 
And  hoarse  laments  of  curlew  and  sea-raven 
Haunt  every  gale. 

My  ship  lies  at  the  pier 

(The  tide  's  at  turn); 
No  place  she  hath  for  fear 

From  prow  to  stern. 
O  Love,  the  soul  shall  never  miss  its  haven, 

Though  it  sail  far, 

Nor  hoarse  laments  of  curlew  and  sea-raven 
May  reach  yon  star. 

1893 


[39] 


SONG 

LAUGHTER  that  ringeth  all  day  long 
In  a  world  of  dancing  feet; 
A  heart  attuned  to  a  bird's  wild  song, 

As  eager,  as  wayward  and  sweet. 
Love,  passing  by,  drew  near  and  smiled : 
"Ah,  dear  Love,  wait,  she  is  a  child!  " 
Reluctantly  he  went  his  way: 
"I  shall  come  back  another  day." 

A  heavier-drooping  lid,  a  line 

Gentler  in  curving  cheek  and  chin; 
Lips  where  joys  tremble,  where  hopes  shine; 

And  something  more  —  a  storm  within, 
A  heart  that  wakes  to  sudden  fears, 
And  eyes  that  know  the  use  of  tears : 
"Ah,  cruel  Love!  to  come  and  teach 
A  pain  that  knows  nor  name  nor  speech!" 

Love  stands  aggrieved:  "Farewell,  I  go! 
Take  back  thy  child-heart's  unconcern." 


[40] 

"Nay,  nay!    Thou  shalt  not  leave  me  so!" 
She  holds  him  fast  with  tears  that  burn. 
"  Sweet  Love,  I  pray  thee  to  abide. 
If  thou  walk  constant  at  my  side, 
Through  doubt,  through  sorrow,  through 

despair, 
No  pain  can  be  too  hard  to  bear." 

1882 


SONG 

LADY  mine,  so  passing  fair, 
Would 'st  thou  roses  for  thy  hair? 
Would 'st  thou  lilies  for  thy  hand? 
Bid  me  pluck  them  where  they  stand. 
Those  are  warm  and  red  to  see, 
These  are  cold.     Are  both  like  thee? 
Brow  of  lily,  lip  of  rose, 
Heart  that  no  man  living  knows! 
If  one  knelt  beside  thy  feet, 
Would 'st  thou  spurn,  or  love  him,  Sweet? 


[42] 


SONGS    FROM    AN    UNPRINTED 
POEM 


HAST  seen   the  blue  wave    sleeping, 
sleeping, 

By  gentle  winds  caressed? 
Hast  seen  the  far  moon  ceaseless  keeping 
Her  watch  above  its  rest? 

Hast  seen  the  pale  moths  drift  together 
With  winged  seeds  wind-sown? 

Hast  seen  the  falling  of  gull's  feather, 
Or  leaf  from  wild  rose  blown? 

Hast  seen  the  white  wave  dancing,  dancing, 

With  wondrous  witchery, 
Like  hers  who  rose,  men's  hearts  entrancing, 

From  out  the  sun-bright  sea? 

Lighter  than  wave,  or  leaf,  or  pinion, 
Than  circling  moth  more  fleet, 

Than  goddess  mightier  of  dominion, 
The  charm  of  rhythmic  feet. 


[43] 

II 

O  day  thou  art  so  weary  long! 

O  night  so  maddening  brief! 
Swift  moments  for  life's  feast  and  song, 

Slow  hours  for  life's  grief. 

A  thousand  pearls  the  lavish  sea 

Rolls  up  to  fill  my  hands; 
The  ebb-tide  leaves  but  shells  to  me 

Empty  upon  the  sands. 


[44] 


BUD  AND  ROSE 

FOR   A    CHILD 

Fis  so  small! 
\  cup  of  green,  — a  tiny  tip 
As  pink  as  is  a  baby's  lip, 
And  that  is  all. 

But  sunshine's  kiss, 
And  rain-drops  falling  warm  and  fast, 
And  coaxing  winds  will  make  at  last 

A  rose  like  this. 


[45] 


A  WINTER  SONG 

ALL  the  roses  are  under  the  snow: 
Only  the  tips 
Of  the  bare,  brown,  thorny  bushes  show. 

Out  of  sight,  pretty  blossoms  sleep 
Sweet  and  sound;  there  are  left  for  me 
Fairest  of  roses,  one,  two,  three,  — 

Where  do  you  think? 

On  my  baby's  cheeks  two,  pale  and  pink, 
And  one  that  is  ripe  and  red  and  deep, 
On  my  baby's  lips. 

All  the  bonnie  brown  birds  are  flown 

Far  to  the  South. 
Never  a  piping,  fluted  tone, 

Never  a  silver,  soaring  song 
From  wood-path  sounds,  or  meadow  white; 
Yet,  in  his  hurried  southward  flight, 

Some  songster  kind 
Has  left  the  sweetest  of  gifts  behind : 
Music  that  ripples  all  day  long 

From  my  baby's  mouth. 


[46] 

All  the  stars  have  faded  away; 

The  blue  bright  skies 
Show  not  a  golden  gleam  to-day 

Where  a  thousand  flashed  last  night; 
But  when  the  far  lamps  blaze  again, 
For  the  brightest  you  may  look  in  vain 

(Sly  truants  two), 

Fast  hidden  away  from  me  and  you, 
Under  soft  covers  folded  tight 

In  my  baby's  eyes. 


[47] 


TO  A  CHILD 

THE  leaves  talked  in  the  twilight,  dear; 
Hearken  the  tale  they  told: 
How  in  some  far-off  place  and  year, 
Before  the  world  grew  old, 

I  was  a  dreaming  forest  tree, 

You  were  a  wild,  sweet  bird 
Who  sheltered  at  the  heart  of  me 

Because  the  north  wind  stirred; 

How,  when  the  chiding  gale  was  still, 

When  peace  fell  soft  on  fear, 
You  stayed  one  golden  hour  to  fill 

My  dream  with  singing,  dear. 

To-night  the  self-same  songs  are  sung 

The  first  green  forest  heard; 
My  heart  and  the  gray  world  grow  young  — 

To  shelter  you,  my  bird. 


[48] 


A  SONG  IN  SPRING 

LISTEN,  spring  is  in  the  air; 
As  of  old  the  earth  is  fair; 
Youth  is  dead,  and  sorrow  lies 
With  a  dream  across  his  eyes. 
Softly,  swiftly,  lest  he  wake, 
Kiss  again  for  Love's  dear  sake. 
Nay,  for  Love  unsmiling  stands, 
Holds  a  cup  within  his  hands 
Bright  and  bitter  to  the  brim. 
Who  are  ye  dare  drink  with  him? 

1898 


[49]^ 


A  SONG  IN  SUMMER 

IF  I  were  but  the  west  wind, 
I  would  follow  you; 
Cross  a  hundred  hills  to  find 
Your  world  of  green  and  blue; 

In  your  pine  wood  linger, 

Whisper  to  you  there 
Stories  old  and  strange,  and  finger 

Softly  your  bright  hair. 


[50] 


WITH  A  DAFFODIL 

LADY,  I  am  pale  and  cold, 
Shivering  without  your  door, 
Yet  my  crown  of  winter-gold 
Poets  loved  and  maidens  wore 
In  days  of  yore. 

In  a  fairer  spot  of  earth, 

Some  dream-shrouded,  sweeter  year, 
I,  or  mine,  had  other  birth, 

Woke  in  fields  of  Warwickshire, 

And  laughed  to  hear 

The  boyish  tread  of  Shakespeare's  feet. 

Before  the  swallow,  I  and  mine 
Made  spring  for  him.     O  Lady  sweet! 

Welcome,  as  of  an  honored  line, 

Your  Valentine. 

February  14,  1900 


9 


SONG 

MY  heart  is  as  a  still  grass-hidden  nest; 
O  Lark,  thy  song  is  for  the  sky, 

the  sky! 

Wilt  thou  drop  softly  down  to  me  and  rest, 
Song- wearied,  by  and  by? 


[52] 


, 


APRIL 

FROM  THE  FRENCH  OF  REMY  BELLEAU 

APRIL,  thou  art  the  smile 
That  erewhile 
Cypris  wore;  and  thy  birth 
Is  so  sweet  that  in  heaven 

The  gods  even 
Are  breathing  the  perfume  of  earth. 

JT  is  thou,  gracious  and  mild, 

Hast  beguiled 

Those  exiles  fleet  of  wing,  — 
Exiles  long  time  afar, 

Swallows  that  are 
The  messengers  faithful  of  spring. 


[53] 


RUDEL'S  SONG 

FROM  THE  FRENCH  OF  EDMOND  ROSTAND 

MEN  wander  up  and  down, 
A-singing  through  the  town 
Some  chestnut,  blond,  or  brown 

Sweetheart: 

Chestnut  or  brown  may  reign, 
Or  blond,  won  without  pain,  — 
But  my  Love  doth  remain 
Apart. 

He  merits  little  things 

Who  faithful  sighs  and  sings 

When  every  evening  brings 

His  star: 

Her  white  hand  he  may  press. 
Her  garment's  hem  caress:  —  ' 
But  I  love  my  Princess 

Afar. 


[54] 

'Tis  sweet  with  love  to  burn, 
Always  to  love  and  yearn, 
To  ask  not  in  return 

Her  heart: 

Love  that  may  not  attain, 
Most  noble  when  most  vain! 
And  my  Love  shall  remain 

Apart. 

A  heavenly  thing  it  seems 
This  love  of  shades  and  gleams; 
What  were  life  without  dreams 

That  are 

The  one  gift  that  may  bless  ? 
I  dream  of  her  caress:  — 
Let  me  love  my  Princess 

Afar! 

November  22,  1905 


[55] 


LA  SIRENETA'S  SONG 


FROM  THE  ITALIAN  OF  GABRIELE  D5ANNUNZIO 


WE  were  seven  sisters. 
Seven,  and  all  were  fair. 
We  looked  into  the  fountains, 
Each  of  us  was  fair. 

"Flower  of  rushes  makes  no  bread, 
Mulberry  blossom  makes  no  wine, 
Threads  of  grass  no  linen  fine," 

The  mother  to  the  sisters  said. 

We  looked  into  the  fountains, 
Each  of  us  was  fair. 

The  eldest  was  for  spinning 
And  wanted  spindles  of  gold; 

The  second  was  for  weaving 
And  wanted  shuttles  of  gold; 

The  third  was  for  sewing 
And  wanted  needles  of  gold; 


[56] 

The  fourth  was  for  serving 

And  wanted  cups  of  gold; 
The  fifth  was  for  sleeping 

And  wanted  pillows  of  gold; 
The  sixth  was  for  dreaming 

And  wanted  dreams  of  gold; 
The  little  one  was  for  singing. 

The  youngest  of  them  all, 
For  singing,  only  singing, 

And  wanted  nothing  at  all. 

"Flower  of  rushes  makes  no  bread, 
Mulberry  blossom  makes  no  wine, 
Threads  of  grass  no  linen  fine/* 

The  mother  to  the  sisters  said. 

We  looked  into  the  fountains, 
Each  of  us  was  fair. 

And  the  eldest  sister  span, 
Twisting  spindle  and  heart; 
And  the  second  sister  wove, 
And  she  wove  a  web  of  pain; 
And  the  third  sister  sewed, 
Making  a  poisoned  shift; 
And  the  fourth  sister  served, 


[57] 

And  she  served  a  tainted  dish; 
And  the  fifth  sister  slept, 
Slept  on  the  pillow  of  death; 
And  the  sixth  sister  dreamed, 
Dreamed  in  the  arms  of  death. 
The  mother  wept  in  pain, 
Wept  for  the  evil  fate; 
But  the  youngest  one  who  sang, 

Singing  early  and  late, 
Singing,  only  singing, 

Had  ever  a  happy  fate. 

(La  Gioconda,  Act  IV.,  Scene  i.) 


[58] 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  SUN 

FROM  THE  ITALIAN  OF  ST.  FRANCIS  OF  ASSISI 

OLORD,    we    praise    Thee    for    our 
Brother  Sun, 
Who  brings  us  day,  who  brings  us  golden 

light. 

He  tells  us  of  Thy  Beauty,  Holy  One. 
We  praise  Thee,  too,  when  falls  the  quiet 

night, 

For  Sister  Moon,  and  every  silver  star 
That  Thou  hast  set  in  Heaven,  clear  and 

far. 

For  our  brave  Brother  Wind  we  give  Thee 

praise; 

For  clouds  and  stormy  skies,  for  gentle  air; 
And  for  our  Sister  Water,  cool  and  fair, 
Who  does  us  service  in  sweet,  humble  ways; 
But,  when  the  winter  darkens,  bitter  cold, 
We  praise  Thee  every  night  and  all  day 

long 


[59] 

For  our  good  friend,  so  merry  and  so  bold, 

Dear  Brother  Fire,  beautiful  and  strong. 

For  our  good  Mother  Earth,  we  praise 
Thee,  Lord; 

For  the  bright  flowers  she  scatters  every- 
where; 

For  all  the  fruit  and  grain  her  fields  afford; 

For  her  great  beauty,  and  her  tireless  care. 

We  praise  Thee,  Lord,  for  gentle  souls  who 
live 

In  love  and  peace,  who  bear  with  no  com- 
plaint 

All  wounds  and  wrongs;  who  pity  and 
forgive; 

Each  one  of  these,  Most  High,  shall  be 
Thy  saint. 

(Incomplete) 


[6o] 


NATIVITY  SONG 

ADAPTED  FROM  THE  LATIN  OF  JACOPONE 
DA  TODI 

THE  beautiful  mother  is  bending 
Low  where  her  baby  lies, 
Helpless  and  frail,  for  her  tending; 
But  she  knows  the  glorious  eyes. 

The  mother  smiles  and  rejoices 
While  the  baby  laughs  in  the  hay; 

She  listens  to  heavenly  voices: 

"The  child  shall  be  king,  one  day." 

O  dear  little  Christ  in  the  manger, 
Let  me  make  merry  with  thee. 

O  King,  in  my  hour  of  danger, 
Wilt  thou  be  strong  for  me? 


THE  LEAST  OF  CAROLS 

LOVELIEST  dawn  of  gold  and  rose 
Steals  across  undrifted  snows; 
In  brown,  rustling  oak  leaves  stir 
Squirrel,  nuthatch,  woodpecker; 
Brief  their  matins,  but,  by  noon, 
All  the  sunny  wood  's  a-tune: 
Jays,  forgetting  their  harsh  cries, 
Fipe  a  spring  note,  clear  and  true; 
Wheel  on  angel  wings  of  blue, 
Trumpeters  of  Paradise; 
Then  the  tiniest  feathered  thing, 
All  a-flutter,  tail  and  wing, 
Gives  himself  to  caroling: 

"  Chick-a-dee-dee,  chick-a-dee ! 
Jesulino,  hail  to  thee! 
Lowliest  baby  born  to-day, 
Pillowed  on  a  wisp  of  hay; 
King  no  less  of  sky  and  earth, 

And  singing  sea; 


[62] 

Jesu!  Jesu!  most  and  least! 
For  the  sweetness  of  thy  birth 
Every  little  bird  and  beast, 
Wind  and  wave  and  forest  tree, 
Praises  God  exceedingly, 

Exceedingly." 

December,  1904. 


OTHER   LYRICS 


WHEN  BEAUTY  DIES 

SHOULD  change  fall  in  its  fated  hour; 
Should  music  cease,  should  darkness  be; 
Should  star  and  sun  and  face  and  flower 
Turn  dust  of  beauty  endlessly, 
Beloved,  what  of  you  and  me? 

I  question  how,  by  finer  sense, 

The  soul  adventures  ways  unknown, 

Or  what  shall  be  its  recompense 
For  death?  what  loveliness  atone 
For  earth's  green  glory  sadly  flown? 

Yet,  since  I  need  nor  touch,  nor  sight, 
Nor  spoken  word,  however  dear, 

To  read  your  thought  and  will  aright, 
To  know  your  spirit,  now  and  here, 
What  has  our  fellowship  to  fear? 


[66] 

Man's  age-long  doubt  assails  in  vain 
The  truth  that  lightens  in  your  eyes, 

Or  your  still  courage,  bred  of  pain: 
Beyond  the  wreck  of  worlds  and  skies, 
I  shall  seek  these,  when  beauty  dies. 


[6?] 


THOUGH  UNSEEN 

FROM  the  dwelling-place  of  the  Holy 
Dead 

Wilt  thou  come  back  to  me? 
O  Love,  it  is  far 
To  that  glad,  great  star 
Whose  shining  hath  hidden  thee! 
"Neither  in  star  nor  sun,"  she  said, 

Her  voice  as  it  oft  had  been, 
"The  dwelling-place  of  the  Holy  Dead, 
Nor  dreamer  nor  saint  hath  seen." 

Lost  Love  of  mine,  where  we  walked  of  yore 
Thy  feet  made  hallowed  ground; 
Now  earth  is  earth, 
Here  are  death  and  birth, 
But  where  is  the  glory  found? 
Low  at  my  side  her  voice  once  more, 

"Dull  are  thine  eyes,"  she  said; 
"Walk  with  me  now  as  we  went  of  yore," 
And  I  walk  with  the  Holy  Dead. 

October  9,  1894 


[68] 


AWAKENED 

I  PRAYED  for  other  life  to  come, 
You  prayed  for  sleep. 
We  passed.     The  sentinels  were  dumb, 
The  road  was  steep. 

I  have  forgotten  days  and  hours; 

I  found  you,  late, 
Asleep  where  grow  tall  nameless  flowers 

Within  the  Gate. 

To  shimmering  heights  of  amethyst 

A  bright  path  led; 
Far  off  I  saw  through  silver  mist 

The  blessed  dead. 

Those  holy  hills  where  souls  rejoice 

Seemed  flint  and  sand, 
If  I  must  go  without  your  voice, 

And  miss  your  hand. 


[69] 

No  less  for  me  all  Paradise 

Were  dust  and  thorn, 
Should  I  in  your  awakening  eyes 

See  pain  reborn. 

I  feared  to  touch  your  shining  hair, 

To  breathe  your  name; 
I  waited  while  the  golden  air 

Brightened  to  flame. 

Across  your  eyes  the  glory  fell; 

They  opened  wide,  — 
How  beautiful  I  may  not  tell,  — 

How  satisfied. 

1901 


DEFEATED 

WHEN  the  last  fight  is  lost,  the  last 
sword  broken; 

The  last  call  sounded,  the  last  order  spoken; 
When  from  the  field  where  braver  hearts 

lie  sleeping, 
Faint,  and  athirst,  and  blinded,  I   come 

creeping, 
With  not  one  waving  shred  of  palm  to 

bring  you, 
With  not  one  splendid  battle-song  to  sing 

you, 

O  Love,  in  my  dishonor  and  defeat, 
Your  measureless  compassion  will  be  sweet. 

1906 


A  DREAM 

LAST  night,  what  time  dreams  wander 
east  and  west, 

What  time  a  dream  may  linger,  I  lay  dead, 

With  flare  of  tapers  pale  above  my  head, 

With  weight  of  drifted  roses  on  my  breast; 

And  they,  who  noiseless  came  to  watch  my 

rest, 

Looked  kindly  down  and  gentle  sentence 
said. 

One   sighed   "She  was  but  .young  to  go 

to-day;" 
And  one  "How  fiercely  life  with  death 

had  striven 

Ere   God    set   free    her    spirit,    sorrow- 
shriven!" 
One  said  "The  children  grieve  for  her  at 

play;" 

And  one,  who  bent  to  take  a  rose  away, 
Whispered   "Dear  love,  would  that  we 
had  forgiven." 


[72] 


SLEEP 

DEAR    gray-eyed    Angel,    wilt    thou 
come  to-night? 

Spread  the  soft  shadow  of  thy  shelter- 
ing wings, 
And   banish   every   hint  of  thought   and 

light, 
And  all  the  clamoring  crowd  of  waking 

things  ? 

Wilt  thou  bend  low  above  wide  weary  eyes, 
As  o'er  the  worn  world  bend  the  tireless 
skies? 


[73] 


SANGRAAL 

TASTING  the  wine  of  death  he  found 
it  sweet; 
Drank  deeper  draughts  and  only  smiled 

the  more; 

As  if  he  touched  the  hand  that  held  the  cup, 
As  if  he  saw  the  Christ  look  down  on  him, 
Content  he  whispered,  "Lord,  I  drink  to 
thee." 

1884 


[74] 


GABRIEL 

"That  annunciation  named  death." 

"T  KNOW    thee,    Angel,    though    thou 
JL       dost  not  wear, 
As  thou  wast  wont,  the  glory  and  the 

gold 

That  smote  upon  the  poet's  gaze  of  old. 
Thou  Messenger!    What  tidings  dost  thou 
bear? 

"I  know  thee  winged  and  vested  thus  in 


Not  clouds  of  heaven  and  night  of  earth 

disguise 

The  light  supernal  of  thine  awful  eyes. 
O  Angel,  linger,  speak  to  me  who  pray!" 

Almost  I  seemed  to  hold  and  to  let  slip 
The  angel's  robe;  I  know  the  gray  wings 
cast 


[75] 

Shadow  about  me;    yet  he  smiled  and 

passed, 
That  word  of  God  a-quiver  on  his  lip. 

When  morning  came,  one  died  whom  I 

held  dear; 

The  angel's  smile  lay  on  his  quiet  face; 
For  him  who  pleaded  not  had  been  the 

grace, 
The  word  ineffable  I  wait  to  hear. 

1895 


[76  3 


MIDWINTER 

ALL  night  I  dreamed  of  roses, 
Wild  tangle  by  the  sea, 
And  shadowy  garden  closes. 
Dream-led  I  met  with  thee. 

Around  thee  swayed  the  roses, 
Beyond  thee  sang  the  sea; 

The  shadowy  garden  closes 
Were  Paradise  to  me. 

O  Love,  'mid  the  dream-roses 

Abide  to  heal,  to  save! 
The  world  that  day  discloses 

Narrows  to  one  white  grave. 

1899 


[77] 


EASTER 

NO  fear  of  death,  or  life,  again  shall 
pass 

Along  these  quivering  fields  of  April  grass, 
Where,  under  quiet,  ever  holier  skies 
Sorrow  keeps  watch  with  glad,  immortal 
eyes. 

1905 


[78] 


ERD, 
I  know 


IN  THE  DARK 

since  the  strongest  human  hands 


Reach  through  my  darkness,  will  not  let 

me  go, 
Hold  me  as  if  most  dear  when  fallen  most 

low; 

Since,  even  now,  when  my  spent  courage 

lies 
Stricken    beneath    disastrous,     quivering 

skies, 
I  learn  the  tenderness  of  human  eyes; 

Surely,  though  night  unthinkable  impend, 
Where  human  hands  nor  human  eyes  be- 
friend, 
Thou  wilt  avail  me  in  the  lonely  end. 

1907 


[79] 

9 
VISION 

WHEN  earth,  and  sea,  and  sky  spread 
fair 

In  flawlessly  transparent  air; 
When  every  blade  of  grass  was  kind, 
And  my  own  joyous  peace  of  mind 
Seemed  part  of  a  world-mood  serene 
Where  restlessness  had  never  been, 
Too  soon  there  stirred  a  wind  of  change, 
A  doubt  that  made  the  beauty  strange, 
A  fear,  mist-like,  in-drifting  dim, 
Because  I  nowhere  met  with  Him. 

But  when  the  flesh  and  spirit  quailed 

For  very  pain;  when  the  will  failed; 

When,  far  from  tenderest  voice  or  hand, 

I  crept  into  a  desert  land 

Of  haggard  grass  and  thorns,  wherein 

Was  lonely  covert  for  my  sin; 

When,  even  my  grief  turned  faint  and  dumb, 

I  waited  what  new  ill  might  come, 

In  that  transfigured,  awful  place, 

Did  I  not  see  Him  face  to  face? 


[8o] 


BRIEF  LIFE 

HE  came  with  the  wind  of  dawn,  when 
rose-red  clouds  were  flying; 
In  the  glory  of  his  coming  the  old  world 

drifted  dim. 
He  went  when  the  evening  star  outwatched 

day's  quiet  dying; 

Its  path  upon  the   sea  made  a  white 
straight  road  for  him. 

Did  he  dream  a  wistful  dream  in  some 

radiant  place  supernal? 
Did  he  hear  the  human  call,  follow  and 

lose  his  way? 
Has  the  touch  of  earth  on  the  child  made 

strange  to  him  things  eternal? 
Is  he  heir  to  sorrow  and  love,  being  mor- 
tal for  one  swift  day? 

1906 


It*] 


OF  TRANSIENT  BEAUTY 

ROSE-FLOWER   and  flower  of  grass 
and  flower  of  flame 
Drift  to  the  Beauty  whence  their  beauty 

came; 
Fainter  are  they,  more  brief,  than  this  June 

wind, 
Yet  for  the  impalpable  grace  they  leave 

behind 
The  years  may  fashion  an  immortal  name. 

June  24,  1909 


[82] 


POMPEII 

OF  death  and  time  and  silence  softly 
wrought. 

Beauty,  effacing  horror,  healing  pain, 

Lies  on  the  mountain  slopes  and  fills  the 
plain, 

Quickens  each  sense  and  lulls  each  ques- 
tioning thought. 

Where  broken  shaft  and  empty  shrine  have 
caught 

Wan  glory  of  sunlight,  ruin  seems  as  gain; 

And  pitiful  the  little  lives,  and  vain, 

That  loved,  that  played,  and  feasted,  sold 
and  bought. 

(Unfinished) 


[83] 


AN  EXILE'S  GARDEN     « 

I   LIVE  in  the  heart  of  a  garden 
With  cypresses  all  about; 
To  .the  east  and  west,  and  the  south  and 

north, 
Straight  shadowy  paths  run  out. 

There  are  ancient  gods  in  my  garden; 

They  have  faces  young  and  pale; 
And  a  hundred  thousand  roses  here 

Enrapture  the  nightingale. 

Yet,  among  the  gods  of  the  garden, 

The  roses  and  gods,  I  think, 
Daylong,  of  a  far-off  clover  field, 

And  the  song  of  a  bob-o-Iink. 


[84] 


FROM  OVER-SEA 

TO   

IN  Italy  how  comes  the  spring? 
I  look  across  wide  fields  of  snow 
To  naked  woods,  and  long  to  know 
How  fair  the  shimmering  mountains  lie? 
How  warm  above  them  bends  the  sky 

Of  Tuscany? 
What  word  from  Rome  the  swallows  bring, 

Swift  sent  to  thee? 
Here  stirs  no  life  of  bud  nor  wing; 
The  trees  by  icy  winds  are  torn; 
And  yet  I  dream  how  flowers  are  born 

In  Italy. 

I  see  the  far,  fair  city  swim 
Through  mists  of  memory  bright  yet  dim 
Shining,  even  as  it  shone  of  old 
Through  Arno's  haze  of  subtile  gold, 
By  witchery 


[85] 

Of  distance,  light  and  evening  spun. 
Tall  cypresses  against  the  sun 

Distinct  I  see, 
Defiling  darkly  up  the  hill, 
As  when  we  wandered  at  our  will 

In  Italy. 


[86] 


SUNSET  ON  THE  CAMPAGNA 

THE  pines  have  no  voice  this  ineffable 
hour, 
The  sea  and  the  Dome  shine  through 

wavering  gold; 
Here,  where  stood  temple  and  palace  and 

tower, 
Shadows  and  grass  lie  in  fold  over  fold, 

Hiding  meek  hearts  that  were  masterful, 

living; 
Hiding  mute  lips  that  were  loud  with 

complaint; 

Mother  of  all,  is  it  scorn  or  forgiving 
That    covers    so    tenderly    sinner    and 
saint? 

Mountains  keep  watch  like  strong  angels 

of  pity; 

Mist  on  the  plain  lies  more  light  than  a 
kiss; 


[87] 

Eyes  that  were  dust  before  Rome  was  a 

city, 

Eyes  that  love  brightened,  saw  these, 
yet  not  this. 

Not  the  same  wonder,  not  the  same  glory, 

Other,  not  lovelier,  sunset  and  morn; 
Neither  can  thought  find  an  end  to  the 

story 

Of  youth  for  whose  rapture  the  world  is 
newborn. 

1901 


[88] 


VENICE   IN  APRIL:  A   MEMORY 

A  GONDOLA  motionless  lying 
Under  the  Arsenal  wall; 
A  weary  boatman  at  stern  and  at  bow 
Supinely  stretched  half  asleep; 
And  you  with  eyes  merrily  deep 
Silent  to  mine  replying, 
'T  is  sweet  to  remember  how. 

We  had  floated  far  that  day, 
That  happiest  day  of  all! 
The  circling  silver  mountain-rim 
Shut  us  safe  from  the  world  away; 
Though  eyes  we  loved  were  hurt  and  dim, 
There  came  to  us  nor  cry  nor  call, 
Where,  idle-oared,  content  we  lay 
Under  the  Arsenal  wall. 

On  the  ripple  a  quivering  crescent 

Tossed  like  a  tortured  thing, 

But,  far  above,  serene, 

It  hung  in  the  curve  of  the  sky; 

At  our  prow  was  the  gentle,  incessant 


[89] 

Sound  of  the  waves'  caress, 

Impelled  by  the  light  breath  wandering  by 

From  some  ocean  god  unseen 

In  his  palace  of  idleness; 

And  ever  from  two  bell-towers 

Rang  out  the  quarter-hours, 

In  broken  harmonies 

Like  the  changes  in  a  chaunt: 

Sounds  to  stay  in  one's  ears  and  haunt 

One's  dreams  with  perplexing  memories* 

Shoreward  or  seaward  making, 

The  boats  passed  lazily; 

We  watched  one  golden  sail  that  flew 

(Its  fellow-flock  forsaking) 

Before  our  eyes  like  a  butterfly, 

Afar  where  the  sea-breeze  fresher  grew; 

How  it  seemed  to  beckon  from  out  the  blue 

Of  the  mystical,  deepening  southern  sky, 

Till  we  longed  to  follow,  we  two! 

The  fair  day  loitered  to  its  close, 

The  boatmen  awakened,  the  play-time  was 

done; 

The  wide  air  turned  to  gold  and  rose, 
And  where  we  watched  a  passing  rower, 


[90] 

We  saw  the  water  run 

Drop  by  drop  from  his  gleaming  oar, 

Opal  and  pearl  and  amethyst. 

Eastward  and  westward  grew  the  light; 
San  Marco's  domes  were  floating  mist; 
The  Campanile's  slender  height 
Stood  pale  against  one  purple  cloud, 
Down  which  the  sun  dropped  suddenly, 
Piercing  it  through  with  a  golden  shaft. 
We  were  silent  now,  none  spoke  nor  laughed ; 
Only  the  bells  anon  rang  loud, 
Ever  repeating  to  you  and  to  me : 
"The  story  is  ended,  the  dream  is  o'er, 
You  may  carry  away  beyond  the  sea 
A  picture,  and  nothing  more." 

And  yet,  might  the  dream  of  a  dream  avail, 

'T  were  good  to  dream  it  over  again; 

To  forget  the  years  that  lie  between, 

To  be  careless  of  heart  as  then; 

To  see  the  glow  of  that  warm  rose  light, 

Feel  the  hush  of  that  air  serene; 

Once  more  down  the  silvery,  far  lagoon, 

Under  opal  sky  and  crescent  moon, 

To  follow  that  golden  sail. 

*   1884 


IN  UMBRIA 

UNDER  a  roof  of  twisted  boughs 
And  silver  leaves  and  noon-day  sky, 
Among  gaunt  trunks,  where  lizards  house, 

On  the  hot  sun-burnt  grass  I  lie; 
I  hear  soft  notes  of  birds  that  drowse, 
And  steps  that  echo  by 

Unseen,  along  the  sunken  way 
That  drops  below  the  city-wall. 

Not  of  to-day,  nor  yesterday, 
The  hidden,  holy  feet  that  fall. 

O  whispering  leaves,  beseech  them  stay! 
O  birds,  awake  and  call! 

Say  that  a  pilgrim,  journeying  long, 
From  that  loud  land  that  lies  to  west, 

Where  tongues  debate  of  right  and  wrong, 
Would   be    "The   Little   Poor   Man's" 
guest; 


[92] 

Would  learn  "The  Lark's"  divine  "Sun- 
Song," 
And  how  glad  hearts  are  blest. 

Say:  "Master,  we  of  over-seas 
Confess  that  oft  our  hearts  are  set 

On  gold  and  gain;  and  if,  with  these, 
For  lore  of  books  we  strive  and  fret, 

Perchance  some  lore  of  bended  knees 
And  saint-hood  we  forget; 

"  Still,  in  one  thought  our  lips  are  bold  — 
That,  in  our  world  of  haste  and  care, 

Through  days  whose  hours  are  bought  and 

sold, 
Days  full  of  deeds,  and  scant  of  prayer, 

Of  thy  life's  gospel  this  we  hold: 
The  hands  that  toil  are  fair. 

"Therefore,  forgive;  assoil  each  stain 
Of  trade  and  hate,  of  war  and  wrath; 

Teach  us  thy  tenderness  for  pain; 
Thy  music  that  no  other  hath; 

Thy  fellowship  with  sun  and  rain, 
And  flowers  along  thy  path." 


[93] 

Thou  dost  not  answer.     Down  the  track 
Where  now  I  thought  thy  feet  must  pass, 

With  patient  step  and  burdened  back 
Go  "Brother  Ox"  and  "Brother  Ass." 

A  mountain  cloud  looms  swift  and  black, 
Overshadowing  stone  and  grass. 

The  silver  leaves  are  turned  to  gray; 

There  comes  no  sound  from  hedge  nor 

tree; 
Only  a  voice  from  far  away, 

Borne  o'er  the  silent  hills  to  me, 
Entreats:  "Be  light  of  heart  to-day; 

To-morrow  joy  shall  be. 

"The  glad  of  heart  no  hope  betrays, 
Since  'Mother  Earth'  and  'Sister  Death ' 

Are  good  to  know,  and  sweet  to  praise." 
I  hear  not  all  the  far  voice  saith 

Of  Love,  that  trod  green  Umbrian  ways, 
And  streets  of  Nazareth. 

1901 


[94] 


WHITE  HEAD 

PRONE  on  the  northern  water, 
That  laps  him  about  the  breast, 
Like  the  Sphinx  in  the  sand,  forever 
The  giant  lies  in  rest. 

The  sails  drive  swift  before  him, 
And  the  surf  beats  at  his  lip, 

But  the  gray  eyes  look  out  seaward 
Noting  nor  wave  nor  ship. 

The  centuries  drift  over, 

He  marks  not  with  smile  nor  frown, 
Drift  over  him  cloud  and  sea-gull, 

Swallow  and  thistledown. 

I,  of  the  race  that  passes, 

Quick  with  its  hope  and  its  fear, 

Lean  on  his  brow  and  question, 
Plead  at  his  senseless  ear: 


[95] 

"What" of  thy  past  unmeasured? 

And  what  of  the  peoples  gone? 
What  of  the  sea's  first  singing? 

What  of  the  primal  dawn? 

"What  was  the  weird  that  bowed  thee? 

How  did  the  struggle  cease? 
Out  of  what  Titan  anguish 

Issued  thy  hopeless  peace?" 

Nothing  the  pale  lips  utter, 

What  hath  been,  nor  what  shall  be; 
Under  the  brow's  stern  shadow, 

The  gray  eyes  look  to  sea. 

The  blue  glows  round  and  over, 
Thin-veiled,  as  it  were  God's  face; 

I  feel  the  breath,  the  spirit, 
That  knows  nor  time  nor  space. 

And  my  heart  grieves  for  the  giant 

In  his  pitiful  repose, 
Mocked  by  the  vagrant  gladness 

Of  a  laggard  brier-rose; 


[96] 

Mocked  to  his  face  from  seaward 
By  the  flash  and  whirl  of  wings; 

Mocked  from  the  grass  above  him, 
By  life  that  creeps  and  sings. 

I  care  not  for  his  wisdom, 

His  secret  unconfessed; 
I  yearn  toward  rose  and  cricket, 

Ephemeral  and  blest. 

Ah !  if  he  might,  how  would  he 
Quicken  to  love  and  to  tears; 

For  my  immortal  minute 
Barter  his  endless  years! 

He  rests  on  the  restless  water, 
And  I  on  the  grasses  brown, 

Drift  over  us  cloud  and  sea-gull, 
Swallow  and  thistledown. 

CASCO  BAY 


[97] 


VESPERS 

THE  robins  call  me  sweet  and  shrill: 
"Come  out  and  fare  afield; 
The  sun  has  neared  the  western  hill, 
The  shadows  slip  down  sure  and  still, 
But  in  our  meadow  wide  and  wet 
There  's  half  an  hour  of  sunshine  yet; 
Come    down,    come    down!"       Who 
would  not  yield  ? 

Across  the  road  and  through  the  lane, 

Where  buttercups  grow  tall  and  bright 
With  daisies  washed  in  last  night's  rain,  — 
Beyond  the  open  bars  I  gain 
An  angle  of  the  rude  rail-fence, 
A  perfect  coign  of  vantage,  whence 
Wheat-field  and  pasture  stretch  in  sight. 

The  cows,  with  stumbling  tread  and  slow, 

One  after  one  come  straggling  by, 
And  many  a  yellow  head  falls  low, 
And  many  a  daisy's  scattered  snow, 
Where  the  unheeding  footsteps  pass, 


[98] 

Is  crushed  and  blackened  in  the  grass, 
With  brier  and  rue  that  trampled  lie. 

Sweet  sounds  with  sweeter  blend  and  strive : 

In  its  white  prime  of  blossoming 
Each  wayside  berry-bush,  alive 
With  myriad  bees,  hums  like  a  hive; 
The  frogs  are  loud  in  ditch  and  pool, 
And  songs  unlearned  of  court  or  school 
June's  troubadours  all  round  me  sing. 

Somewhere  beneath  the  meadow's  veil 
The  peewee's  brooding  notes  begin; 
The  sparrows  chirp  from  rail  to  rail; 
Above  the  bickering  swallows  sail, 

Or  skim  the  green  half-tasselled  wheat 
With  plaintive  cry;  and  at  my  feet 
A  cricket  tunes  his  mandolin. 

High-perched,  a  master-minstrel  proud, 
The  red-winged  blackbird  pipes  and 

calls, 

One  moment  jubilant  and  loud, 
The  next,  to  sudden  silence  vowed, 
Seeks  cover  in  the  marsh  below; 
Soft  winds  along  the  rushes  blow, 
And  like  a  whisper  twilight  falls. 


[99] 

IN  HARVEST 

MOWN  meadows  skirt  the  standing 
wheat; 

I  linger,  for  the  hay  is  sweet, 
New-cut  and  curing  in  the  sun. 
Like  furrows,  straight,  the  windrows  "run. 
Fallen,  gallant  ranks  that  tossed  and  bent 
When,  yesterday,  the  west  wind  went 
A-rioting  through  grass  and  grain. 
To-day  no  least  breath  stirs  the  plain; 
Only  the  hot  air,  quivering,  yields 
Illusive  motion  to  the  fields 
Where  not  the  slenderest  tassel  swings. 
Across  the  wheat  flash  sky-blue  wings; 
A  goldfinch  dangles  from  a  tall, 
Full-flowered  yellow  mullein;   all 
The  world  seems  turning  blue  and  gold. 
Unstartled,  since,  even  from  of  old, 
Beauty  has  brought  keen  sense  of  her, 
I  feel  the  withering  grasses  stir; 
Along  the  edges  of  the  wheat, 
I  hear  the  rustle  of  her  feet: 
And  yet  I  know  the  whole  sea  lies, 
And  half  the  earth,  between  our  eyes. 
1903 


WHEN  NATURE  HATH  BETRAYED 
THE  HEART  THAT  LOVED  HER 

THE  gray  waves  rock  against  the  gray 
sky-line, 
And  break  complaining  on  the  long  gray 

sand, 

Here  where  I  sit  who  cannot  understand 
Their  voice  of  pain  nor  this  dumb  pain  of 
mine; 

For  I,  who  thought  to  fare  till  my  days  end, 
Armed  sorrow-proof  in  sorrow,   having 

known 
How  hearts  bleed  slow  when  brave  lips 

make  no  moan, 

How  Life   can   torture,   how  Death   may 
befriend 

When  Love  entreats  him  hasten,  —  even  I, 
Who  feared  no  human  anguish  that  may 

be, 
I  cannot  bear  the  loud  grief  of  the  sea; 

I  cannot  bear  the  still  grief  of  the  sky. 


[101] 


IN  APRIL 

ALL  day  the  grass  made  my  feet  glad; 
I  watched  the  bright  life  thrill 
To  each  leaf-tip  and  flower-lip; 

Swift  winds  that  swept  the  hill, 
In  garden  nook  light  lingering,  shook 
The  budding  daffodil. 

I  know  not  if  the  earth  have  kept 

Work-day  or  festival: 
The  sparrow  sings  of  nestling  things, 

Blithely  the  robins  call; 
And  loud  I  hear,  from  marsh-pools  near, 

The  hylas  at  nightfall. 

1895 


[102] 


ACROSS  THE  BORDER 

I  have  read  somewhere  that  the  birds  of  fairyland  are 
white  as  snow.  —  W.  B.  YEATS. 

WHERE   all   the   trees   bear   golden 
flowers, 

And  all  the  birds  are  white; 
Where  fairy  folk  in  dancing  hours 
Burn  stars  for  candlelight; 

Where  every  wind  and  leaf  can  talk, 

But  no  man  understand 
Save  one  whose  child-feet  chanced  to  walk 

Green  paths  of  fairyland; 

I  followed  two  swift  silver  wings; 

I  stalked  a  roving  song; 
I  startled  shining,  silent  things; 

I  wandered  all  day  long. 

But  when  it  seemed  the  shadowy  hours 

Whispered  of  soft-foot  night, 
I  crept  home  to  sweet  common  flowers, 

Brown  birds,  and  candlelight. 
1901 


[  103  ] 


FEBRUARY 

EST  night  I  heard  a  robin  sing; 
And  though  I  walked  where  woods 

were  bare, 

And  winds  were  cold,  life  quivered  there, 
As  if  in  sleep  the  heart  of  spring 
Were  moved  to  dim  remembering. 
To-day  no  promise  haunts  the  air; 
I  find  but  snow  and  silence  where 
Last  night  I  heard  a  robin  sing. 


[  104] 


AT  SEA 

SO  many  eves  the  sun  must  sink  within 
The    westward    plain    of    shoreless, 

homeless  sea; 
So   many   morns,    as   if   from   heaven   to 

heaven, 

From  out  the  widening  water  in  the  east 
The  sun  must  rise;  so  many  summer  days, 
Full  in  the  face  of  the  unveiled  sky, 
The  ship  must  float,  till  even  the  strongest 

gull, 
Deserting,  wheels  to  track  a  land-bound 

sail. 
So  many  days!     Yet  there  shall  come  a 

day  — 

Some  golden,  holy,  August  afternoon  — 
When,  tired  of  sea  at  eve  and  sea  at  morn, 
The  sun  shall  droop  like  a  contented  child, 
And  sleep  among  the  cradling  hills  of  home. 


A  LAND-WIND 

THE  lichen  rustles  against  my  cheek, 
But  the  heart  of  the  rock  is  still; 
With  chattering  voice  the  cedars  speak, 
Crouched  gray  on  the  barren  hill. 

A  land-wind  snarls  on  the  cliff's  sheer  edge, 

Below,  the  smitten  sea 
Comes  fawning  over  a  sunken  ledge, 

And  cowers  whimperingly. 

In  the  sultry  wood  lies  a  restless  hush, 
Not  a  twitter  falls  from  the  sky; 

Hidden  are  swallow,  sparrow,  and  thrush, 
And  the  sea-birds  only  cry. 


[io6] 


THE  WHITE  STORM 

THE  snow  and  the  high  spray  mingle; 
They  swirl  round  the  beacon-head; 
And  the  sea  on  cliff  and  shingle 
Calls  for  his  hundred  dead. 

The  mothers  hear  who  have  listened, 
Trembling,  through  every  gale, 

Lest  the  sons  in  sorrow  christened 
Be  named  in  the  yearly  tale. 

For,  crew  by  crew  in  his  rages, 
And  man  by  man  through  deceit, 

He  has  reckoned  their  best  scant  wages, 
And  to-night  he  cries  for  the  fleet. 

The  good  fleet  sailed  when  the  morning 
Laughed  and  beckoned  them  forth; 

Never  a  bird  gave  warning, 

Nor  a  whisper  from  out  the  North. 

They  are  cunning  in  wind  and  weather, 
But  what  may  the  wisest  know 


[  107] 

When  sea  and  sky  together 
Are  a  sightless  waste  of  snow? 

From  shoreward  and  seaward  driven, 
From  skyward  a  falling  cloud, 

Immeasurable,  unriven, 
Gathers  the  frozen  shroud? 

Headland  and  beacon  hiding, 

Liner  from  fishing-boat; 
Sailor  from  sailor  dividing, 

Coiling  round  eyes  and  throat. 
•         •••••« 

Ashore  the  wind  goes  wailing 
And  the  twisted  cedars  moan; 

In  vigil  unavailing 
The  women  sit  like  stone. 

They  shall  find  their  voice  of  sorrow 
When  the  wild,  white  nights  are  past; 

When,  some  golden  April  morrow, 
Glutted  and  glad  at  last, 

The  sea  that  quiet  lingers 

And  smiles  round  the  beacon-head, 
With  pitiful  lips  and  fingers 

Fondles  his  hundred  dead. 

1898 


[io8] 


RIVER  AND  BIRD 

FLOWETH  the  river  still  and  strong; 
Flitteth  the  bird  swift-winged  along 
Its  crested  wave  with  joyous  song. 

The  bird  is  a  creature  of  air  and  light; 
Skyward  she  taketh  her  circling  flight, 
Leaving  the  broad  stream  out  of  sight. 

What  though  the  mighty  river  frets 
With  broken  voice?     Of  long  regrets 
Light  hearts  know  little.     The  bird  forgets. 

Weary  at  last  of  all  things  fair; 
Weary  of  soaring  everywhere; 
Weary  of  heaven,  and  earth,  and  air; 

Discontent  in  the  song  she  sings  - — 
Cometh  the  bird  from  her  wanderings 
Back  to  the  river  to  dip  her  wings. 


[  109] 


Stealeth  the  noon-hush  far  and  wide; 
Smileth  the  sun  on  the  river's  tide; 
Dreameth  the  bird  in  the  shade  beside. 


My  love  is  the  river  still  and  strong; 
Thy  heart  is  the  bird  that  flits  along 
Wave  and  ripple,  with  joyous  song. 

iSSi 


[no] 

' 
DESTINY 

A  NOISOME    thing    that    crawls    by 
covert  path, 

For  glad,  unf earing  feet  to  lie  in  wait; 
No  part  in  summer's  fellowship  it  hath, 
From  mirth  and  love  and  music  alienate. 

Yet  once  it  flashed  across  the  close,  brown 

grass 
In  the  noon  sun,   and,   as  it  quivered 

there, 

The  spell  of  beauty  over  it  did  pass, 
Making  it  kin  with  earth  and  light  and 
air. 

I  knew  that  Life's  imperial  self  decrees 
That  this,  the  loathliest  of  living  things, 

By  patient  ways  of  cycled  centuries, 
Slow  creeping,   shall   at  last  attain   to 
wings. 


[Ill] 


A  JOURNEY 


UPROSE  the  Day  when  Night  lay  dead, 
She  turned  not  back  to  kiss  his  cheek, 
But  o'er  the  sombre  eastern  peak 
She  soared,  and  touched  it  into  red. 

Her  strong  wings  scattered  mist  and  cloud, 
As  swiftly  toward  the  highest  blue, 
Unhindered,  radiant,  she  flew. 

She  sang  for  joy;   she  laughed  aloud. 

"The   midmost   heaven,"    she   cried,    "is 
mine! 

The  midmost  heaven  and  half  the  earth. 

A  million  joys  I  bring  to  birth, 
Upon  a  million  lovers  shine! 

"I  paint  the  grape,  I  gild  the  corn, 
I  float  the  lilies  on  the  lake, 
I  set  a-thrill  in  field  and  brake 

Fine  strains  of  tiny  flute  and  horn. 


[112] 

"Ah,  it  is  sweet,"  she  said,  and  passed, 
Exulting  still,  down  the  sheer  slope 
Of  afternoon.     Her  heart  of  hope 

Went  with  her,  dauntless,  till,  at  last, 

Upon  the  far  low-lying  range 

Of  hills,  she  spread  a  crimson  cloud; 

From  the  pale  mists  she  tore  a  shroud, 
And,  sinking,  faint  with  sense  of  change, 

She  seemed  to  see  a  face  bend  o'er 
With  kind,  familiar  eyes.     She  said: 
"Can  it  be  you  I  left  for  dead? 

Can  it  be  Night?"  and  spoke  no  more. 

Night  wrapped  her  in  his  mantle  gray; 

He  kissed  the  quivering  lids  that  slept; 

He  bowed  his  silver  head  and  wept  — 
"How  could  she  know,  my  love,  my  Day?" 

1889 


["3] 


I 


GHOSTS 

SLEPT  last  night  and  dreamed, 

I  woke  and  cried, 
For  in  my  sleep  it  seemed, 

Close  by  my  side, 

Walked  still  and  slow  the  old  days  that 
have  died. 

All  ghostly  slow  they  passed, 

All  ghostly  still; 
Of  old  who  fled  so  fast, 

With  life  a-thrill, 

With  laughing  lips  and  eyes,  with  eager 
will. 

So  ghostlike,  yet  the  same, 

Each  dear  dead  day, 
Softly  I  called  her  name 

And  bade  her  stay; 

Softly  she  turned  and  smiled  and  went  her 
way. 


[114] 


ANSWERED 
MARVEL  how  youth  could  be  bold 


JL        to  say: 


"If  but  this  thing  might  come  my  heart 

were  blessed;" 

To  offer  every  treasure  life  possessed, 
Gladly,  in  one  supreme  exchange. 

To-day, 
I  give  God  thanks,  yet  know  not  how  to 

bear 

The   exceeding   bitterness   of   answered 
prayer. 


THE  WATCHER  AND  THE  WIND 

THE    WATCHER 

WILD    singer   at   my   casement,    be 
thou  still! 

In  pity  let  me  sleep; 
For  I  am  weary,  and  thy  voice  is  shrill; 

We  have  no  tryst  to  keep. 
Go  on  thy  way;    to  gladder  hearts  than 

mine 

Thy  song  perchance  were  glad; 
To  me  if  thou  must  come,  come  with  sun- 
shine, 
For  night  is  over  sad. 

THE  WIND 

Nay  listen,  listen  thou  so  fretfully  pleading 
for  rest; 

Those  whom  I  rock  may  sleep: 
I  rock  drowned  men  in  ocean  cradled  deep, 

And  birds  in  frozen  nest. 


[n6] 


A  SMILING  DEMON  OF  NOTRE 
DAME 

QUIET  as  are  the  quiet  skies 
He  watches  where  the  city  lies 
floating  in  vision  clear  or  dim 
Through  sun  or  rain  beneath  his  eyes; 
Her  songs,  her  laughter  and  her  cries 
Hour  after  hour  drift  up  to  him. 

Her  days  of  glory  or  disgrace 

He  watches  with  unchanging  face; 

He  knows  what  midnight  crimes  are  done; 

What  horrors  under  summer  sun; 

And  souls  that  pass  in  holy  death 

Sweep  by  him  on  the  morning's  breath. 

Alike  to  holiness  and  sin 

He  feels  nor  alien  nor  akin; 

Five  hundred  creeping  mortal  years 

He  smiles  on  human  joy  and  tears, 

Man-made,  immortal,  scorning  man; 

Serene,  grotesque,  Olympian. 


[H7] 
PAN  AND  PSYCHE 

(A  PAINTING  BY  SIR  EDWARD  BURNE-JONES) 

SWEET  Psyche,  hath  thy  quest  of  Love 
So  led  thee  to  a  sterile  land, 
Only  to  grief  and  fear  at  last? 
What  stranger  this  who  bends  above 
Thy  beauty?     What  unshapely  hand 
Hides  in  the  glory  of  thy  hair? 
Pale  wanderer,  thy  long  sorrows  past, 
May  find  no  solace  in  those  eyes, 
Though  wistfully  they  scrutinize 
Thy  face,  and,  dimly,  know  it  fair. 

Go  thou  thy  way  bright  Love  to  find; 
And  in  the  bliss  of  his  embrace 
Thou  shalt  forget  Pan's  dusky  face. 
Go  thou  thy  way  bright  Love  to  find; 
While  Pan,  forsaken,  like  a  brute 
Turns  to  his  fare  of  nut  and  root; 
Yet  change  hath  passed  on  the  dark  mind: 
Nor  god  nor  beast  now,  from  his  flute 
Low  human  music  haunts  the  wind. 


[n8] 


THE  MADONNA 

THE  years  may  enter  not  her  shrine; 
Forever  fair  and  young  she  stands, 
And  with  her  gracious,  girlish  hands 
Folds  tenderly  the  child  divine. 

Her  lips  are  warm  with  mother-love 
And  blessedness,  and  from  her  eyes 
Looks  the  mute,  questioning  surprise 

Of  one  who  hears  a  voice  above 

Life's  voices,  —  from  the  throng  apart, 
Listens  to  God's  low-whispered  word 
(Strange  message  by  no  other  heard), 

And  keeps  his  secret  in  her  heart. 

Sweet  maiden-mother,  years  have  fled 
Since    the    great    painter    dropped    his 

brush, 
Left  earth's  loud  praise  for  heaven's  kind 

hush, 
While  men  bewailed  him,  early  dead, — 


[H9] 

Yet  mothers  kneel  before  thee  still 
Uplifting  happy  hearts;  or,  wild 
With  cruel  loss,  reach  toward  thy  child 

Void  arms  for  the  Christ-love  to  fill. 

Time  waits  without  the  sacred  spot 

Where  fair  and  young  the  mother  stands; 
Time  waits,  and  bars  with  jealous  hands 

The  door  where  years  may  enter  not. 


[  120  ] 


HOLY  EARTH 

ALICE    GORDON    GULICK 

Buried  in  the  Civil  Cemetery,  Madrid 

BLEAK  burial  place  of  the  unshriven 
dead, 

Where  exile,  heretic,  and  felon  lie: 
Here  never  dirge  is  sung,  nor  prayer  is  said, 
Nor  priestly  blessing;  yet  stray  flowers  burn 

red 
Above  great  hearts  that  found  it  good 

to  die. 
The   wind,   complaining,   may   not  break 

their  rest, 

For  outcast  and  forgotten  slumber  deep; 
But  the  little,  nameless  babies,  unmothered 

and  unblessed, 
Are  crying  softly,  softly  in  their  sleep. 

Honored  to-night  and  hallowed  is  the  spot, 
Because  of  one  who  comes  its  guest  to  be, 
Who  knew  no  alien  race  nor  alien  lot, 


[121] 

Who  chose   her  grave  with  these  whom 

earth  forgot. 

Bringing  them  fellowship  from  over  sea. 
The  sweet  wind  sings  above  their  place  of 

rest, 

And  wrong  and  shame  and  sorrow  slum- 
ber deep; 
And  the  little,  nameless  babies,  mothered 

at  last  and  blessed, 
Are  laughing  .softly,  softly  in  their  sleep. 

1903 


[  122] 


A  GREETING 

MY  day  was  sordid  and  perplexed, 
Close  circled  by  the  commonplace; 
And  late  I  walked  with  spirit  vexed, 

And  sense  of  self-disgrace; 
For  life  and  I  were  out  of  tune; 
I  did  not  see  the  rose-like  flush; 
I  did  not  feel  the  kindly  hush 
Of  waning  afternoon. 

Its  glory  all  around  me  lay, 

While  yet  I  paced  in  discontent; 

When,  suddenly,  from  far  away, 
A  quivering  flash  was  sent; 

It  thrilled  my  heart,  it  stayed  my  feet, 
A  beacon  sure  and  glad  it  shone, 
The  last  red  gleam  of  day  upon 

Your  westward  window,  Sweet. 

And  straight  I  knew  the  world  was  fair; 
I  heard  a  robin's  prophet  song; 


[  123] 

I  drank  the  bright  wine  of  the  air; 

My  pulse  grew  quick  and  strong; 
Not  wasted  seemed  the  day's  work  done; 

Not  hopeless  seemed  the  thing  I  sought; 

The  far-off  heights  of  toil  and  thought 
Seemed  worthy  to  be  won. 


COMMUNION 

DUSK  of  a  lowering  evening, 
Chill  of  a  northern  zone, 
Pitiful  press  of  worn  faces, 
And  an  exiled  heart  alone. 

Warm,  as  with  sun  of  the  tropic, 
Keen,  as  with  salt  of  the  sea, 

Sweet,  as  with  breath  of  blown  roses, 
Cometh  thy  thought  to  me. 


[125] 


ENTRE  NOUS 

1TALK  with  you  of  foolish  things  and 
wise, 
Of  persons,  places,  books,   desires    and 

aims, 

Yet  all  our  words  a  silence  underlies, 
An  earnest,  vivid  thought  that  neither 
names. 

Ah!  what  to  us  were  foolish  talk  or  wise? 
Were  persons,  places,  books,  desires  or 

aims, 

Without  the  deeper  sense  that  underlies, 
The  sweet  encircling  thought  that  neither 
names  ? 

1882 


[126] 


INSCRIPTIONS 

I.       IN   A    BOOK    OF    OLD    SONGS 

DEAR,  were  you  in  a  garden  old, 
Loved  of  brave  troubadours 
Who  praised  your  hair's  bewildering  gold, 

That  glimmers  and  allures, 
The  greatest,  wondering  on  your  face 

Between  the  ilex  trees, 
Might  touch  his  lute  and  thrill  the  place 
With  sweeter  songs  than  these. 

I.   IN  THE  BOOK  THAT  YOU  HAVE  READ 


I  NEED  no  penciled  margin  line; 
By  subtler  emphasis, 
Page  after  page,  I  can  divine 
Your  thought  of  that  and  this. 

I  know  that  here  your  grave  lips  smiled 
The  smile  that  Beauty  brings; 

And  here  you  listened  where  some  wild 
Age-smitten  forest  sings. 


C 127  ] 

Here  your  brow  wore  the  world-old  pain 

No  poet  may  forget; 
And  here  you  stayed  to  read  again; 

Here,  read  through  lashes  wet. 

So,  leaf  by  leaf,  until,  I  deem, 

Your  darkened  eyes  forsook 
One  shining  page,  because  your  dream 

Was  lovelier  than  the  book. 


[128] 


WITH  A  COPY  OF  WHARTON'S 
"SAPPHO" 

And  of  Sappho  few,  but  all  roses.  —  MELEAGER. 

ROSES,  full-hearted  as  of  old 
When  Meleager  garlanded 
Blossom  and  bough  of  poets  dead, 

Lie  here,  and  with  them,  daintily, 
Frail  scattered  petals,  crimson,  gold, 
Drift  to  the  feet  of  you  and  me 
Unfaded,  —  even  such  vain,  brief  things 

(Roses  of  Paestum,  Helen's  tears) 
As  lover  loves,  and  poet  sings, 

And  wise  earth  hoards  through  myriad 

years, 
Careless  when  some  star  disappears. 

Lover  and  poet,  to  your  hands 
Red  rose  and  golden  rose  I  trust, 

Attar  distilled  in  sunnier  lands, 
Curled  petal,  sweet  immortal  dust. 

1904 


[129] 


A  HEARTH-FIRE  VERSE 

A  DIM,  drowned  world,  where,    dull 
and  cold, 

Earth  men  and  women  groped  of  old; 
A  live  coal  brought  in  fennel  reed 
From  the  forbidden  heaven  of  Zeus; 
And  swift  on  every  hearthstone  lit 
Sky-flame  for  homely  human  use; 
Sky-joy  for  drooping  spirit's  need, 

Solace  for  those  who  lonely  sit, 
Loud  mirth  for  folk  who  feast  and  sing, 
Welcome  for  tired  folk  wandering. 

Gift  of  the  Titan's  heavenly  quest, 
Keep  this  house  ever  bright  and  blest. 

December  13,  1904 


[130] 


FOR  A  BIRTHDAY 

CORNELIA   FRANCES    BATES,   AET.    79 


E)NG  ago  sweet  songs  were  sung 
Of  fair  ladies  ever  young; 
Weary  years  of  war  might  be, 
Wearier  wanderings  over  sea, 
Exile  in  sad  lands  and  strange, 
Yet  their  beauty  might  not  change. 
Not  a  single  word  is  told 
Of  a  Helen  who  grows  old; 
Not  her  thousand  sorrows  dare 
Dull  the  light  of  Deirdre's  hair; 
Iseult,  lovelier  than  report, 
Maiden  in  her  father's  court, 
Grown  world-radiant  shall  be  seen 
Through  all  time,  Iseult  the  Queen. 

Deirdre,  Helen,  Iseult  are 
Fadeless,  shining  star  by  star; 
If  their  poets  I  might  bring, 
Skilled  to  touch  the  harp  and  sing, 


Lady,  I  would  bid  them  praise 

Your  brave  crown  of  golden  days; 

Blithe  and  sweet  their  song  should  be, — 

Song  of  her  who  graciously 

With  each  soft  year  younger  grows, 

As  the  earth  with  every  rose. 

December  7,  1905 


[132] 


TO 

Jl/TADONNA  mia!  if  in  truth 
•*  '•^    Our  Raphael  from  heaven's  palaces 

Might  lean  across  the  centuries 
That  have  not  marred  his  glorious  youth, 

Nor  dimmed  the  lustre  of  his  hair, 
Nor  dulled  his  pencil,  rather  grown 
Diviner,  working  near  God's  throne, 

Even  he  might  find  a  study  fair 

As  his  last  fresco  in  the  skies, 

Might  pause  untouched  of  mortal  taint 
One  infinite  half  hour  to  paint 

The  motherhood  in  your  dear  eyes. 


METEMPSYCHOSIS 

I  WATCH   thy   face,    Sweetheart,  with 
half  belief 

In  olden  tales  of  the  soul's  wayfaring; 
I  marvel  from  what  past  thy  young  eyes 

bring 
Their  heritage  of  long  entailed  grief. 

I  watch  thy  face  and  soft  as  through  a 

dream 

I  see  not  thee,  but  some  fair,  fated  Greek, 
Whose  carven  lips  grow  flesh  straight- 
way and  speak 

Stern  words  and  sad,  with  perfect  curves 
that  seem 

But  as  the  cynic  sweetness  of  thy  smile, 
Set  quivering  over  tears  in  self-despite. 
Again  I  watch  by  mystic  taper-light, 

Where  a   pale   saint  doth   kneel  a  weary 
while; 


[134] 

I  hear  the  murmured  passion  of  her  prayer, 
Imploring  heaven  for  boon  of  sacrifice; 
I  read  behind  the  rapture  of  her  eyes 

A  look  which  thou  didst  teach  me  unaware. 

The  visions  pass;  the  light,  but  now  so 

faint, 
Flames  red  and  sudden  over  field  and 

brook; 
Thy  face  is  turned,  full  fronting  me  with 

look 
Worn  never  yet  of  cynic  nor  of  saint; 

And  now  amid  fierce  Northern  battle-glare, 
Where  wounded  heroes  wait  the  gods' 

decree, 
The  Valkyr  rides,  and  o'er  her  brow  I  see 

The  floating  golden  glory  of  thy  hair. 

Sweet  spirit,  pilgrim  through  the  cycled 

years, 
Dear  though  thou  art  I  may  not  bid 

thee  stay; 

I  bless  thee  whatsoever  chartless  way 
Thou    goest,    God-impelled.     I    have    no 
fears. 


[135] 

I  know  thou  wilt  surrender  not  to  pain; 
Thou  wilt  look  never  forth  from  coward 

eyes; 

Thou  would'st  not  barter  truth  for  Para- 
dise; 

Thou   could'st   not   think   that   ease   and 
peace  were  gain. 

Far  off,   I   know,   the   darkness   shall   be 

light 
For  him  who  scorneth  to  make  terms 

with  Fate; 

Far  off  for  thee,  Beloved,  there  must  wait 
The  answered  question,  and  the  finished 
fight. 

1891 


[136] 


A  LETTER 

THE  last  light  falls  across   your  pic- 
tured face 

(Unanswering sweet  face,  half  turned  away), 
Withdrawing  still,  as  down  the  west  apace 
Fades  too  the  profile  of  June's  longest  day. 
I  wonder,  did  you  watch  an  hour  ago 
While  dropped  the  sun  behind  the  moun- 
tain line? 

And  did  you  think  how  it,  retreating  so, 
Must  blaze  along  this  level  world  of  mine? 
Love,  what  have  I  to  do  with  sunset  skies, 
How  red  soever?     All  the  world  for  me 
Spreads  eastward,  and  before  my  spirit's 

eyes, 

Set  fair  between  the  mountains  and  the  sea, 
Doth  stand  the  distant  city  of  my  heart. 

Forgive  me  if  I  tell  myself  in  vain: 
"There  is  no  power  in  this  wide  world  to 
part 


t  137  ] 

Our  souls.     Avail  not  time  nor  space  nor 

pain, 

For  love  is  unconditioned."   Dear,  to-night, 
I  am  like  an  unlessoned  child,  who  cries 
For  the  sweet  sensual  things  of  touch  and 

sight; 

I  want  to  read  the  gladness  in  your  eyes; 
I  want  your  voice  though  but  to  speak  my 

name; 

My  heart  uncomforted,  unsatisfied, 
Hath  put  my  best  philosophy  to  shame. 

Yet  if  you    crossed   the   shadows   to  my 

side,  — 

No  vision,  but  your  very  self  indeed,  — 
I   should  not  ask  what  kindly  fate  had 

brought 
My  heart's  desire.     I  should  not  find  at 

need 

Expression  for  one  eager  waiting  thought, 
Not  one  of  all  the  words  I  have  to  say. 
I   should  but  lean  my  cheek  upon  your 

hand, 
And  hold  you  close,  the  old,  mute,  childish 

way, 
And  you  would  comfort  me  and  understand. 


[138] 

But  not  to-night, — I  will  be  patient,  Sweet, 
Sit  silently,  and  let  life  have  its  will. 
The  tread  of  the  last  passer  in  the  street 
Sounds  with  the  chiming  hour,  then  all  is 

still, 

Save  that  the  little  fountain  in  the  park 
Sings  lazily  the  same  old  summer  song 
You  knew  in  quiet  nights  when  winds  lay 

furled. 

I  needs  must  dream  alone  here  in  the  dark 
A  little  while,  to-morrow  go  forth  strong, 
Lifting  the  shield  of  Love  against  the  world. 

June  19,  1888 


TO-DAY'S  DAUGHTER 

WRITTEN    FOR    THE    GRADUATING    CLASS    AT 
SMITH    COLLEGE,  JUNE,    1885 


OVERY  fair  and  strong   she  stands 
to-day, 
This  youngest  daughter  to  receive  her 

dower; 

I  see  the  wise  World-mother  smiling  lay 
Gift  after  gift  before  her,  bid  her  choose 
The  richest,  purest,  rarest,  lest  she  lose 
One  happiness,  one  power. 

ii 

Thou  wise  World-mother!  it  was  long  to 

wait 
Hoarding  thy  treasures  while  the  slow 

years  passed, 
Keeping  thy  cherished  plan  inviolate 

With  thine  inscrutable,  sweet  smile,  until 
This  golden  hour  has  risen  to  fulfil 
Thy  dearest  wish  at  last 


in 

For  this  thy  child,  a  woman  earnest-eyed, 
Who  wears  thy  gracious  favors  wor- 
thily, 

Pledges  her  honest  faith,  her  constant  pride, 
To  live  her  life  as  one  who  holds  in  trust 
God's  gold  to  give  again,  who  fearless 

must 
Face  the  great  days  to  be. 

IV 

Naught  is  denied  her:   mind  alert,  intent; 
Eyes  that  look  deep  into  the  heart  of 

things ; 

A  skilful  hand  to  shape;  a  firm  will  bent 
On  purposes  that  have  no  petty  ends; 
A  strength  that  falters  not  for  foes  nor 

friends ; 
A  soul  that  has  swift  wings. 


Deep  has  she  read  of  poet  and  of  priest; 
Wit  of  philosopher  and  lore  of  sage; 


1 141  ] 

And  science,  with  its  growth  of  great  from 

least. 
Who  bids  earth's  cowering,  secret  things 

appear, 
And  stand  out  in  this  latter  sunshine, 

clear 
As  type  upon  God's  page. 

VI 

Yet  finds  she  wiser  teachers,  friends  more 

dear, 
In  shadowy  wood-path  and  on  clover 

slope ; 
When    the   June    twilight    slow    and    still 

creeps  near, 

And  rocks  put  on  their  purple  majesty; 
When  stars  across  the  dark  tell  glim- 

meringly 
Her  happy  horoscope. 


VII 


And  sometimes,  when  the  low  moon  lies 

asleep 

On  its  cloud-bed,  like  a  fair  child,  play- 
spent, 


Across  the  river-fields  and  up  the  steep 
Come,  silent  stealing  through  the  silver 

mist, 
Strange  visitors,  whose  holy  lips  have 

kissed 
Death's  own,  yet  are  content. 

VIII 

Wide  eyes  that  seem  to  bring  from  far-off 

years 
Their  loves  and  hopes  and  tragedies 

again; 
And    voices    sadly    cadenced    to    young 

ears, 

Yet  musical  with  old-time  gentleness; 
And  smiles  that  half  conceal  and  half 

confess 

^ 

Some  unforgotten  pain. 

IX 

And  one  with  voice  that  hath  a  dauntless 

ring, 

Saith,  "From  thy  life,  Sweet,  may  the 
gods  avert 


The  need  of  this  strange  gift  I  dare  to  bring, 
A  Roman  woman's  strength,  who  will 

not  spare 
A  quivering  death-wound  at  the  heart 

to  wear, 
And  say  it  doth  not  hurt." 


Speaketh  a  voice  whose  sound  is  of  the  sea: 
"Oft  have  I  paced  the  beach,  while 

sheer  above 

Towered  the  rocks,  waiting  immutably 
As  my  heart  waited.     From  Inarime, 
Across  the  years,  Vittoria  brings  to-day 
Her  gift  of  tireless  love." 

XI 

As  starlight  comes  through  myriad  miles 

of  space, 
Undimmed,  untarnished,  waxing  never 

old, 

So  shineth  (nor  can  centuries  efface) 
One  light  set  in  the  sky  of  time  afar, 
Thy  soul,  Antigone,  that  like  a  star 
Burneth  with  flame  of  gold. 


[  144] 

XII 

Antigone,  what  woman  were  not  glad 

To  feel  against  her  life  the  touch  of 

thine? 

To  meet  thine  eyes,  so  unafraid,  if  sad? 
To  hear  thy  words,  to  clasp  thy  potent 

hand  ? 

To  read  thy  womanhood  as  a  command 
To  sacrifice  divine? 

XIII 

Yet  past  nor  present  can  avail  to  fill 

This  woman's  thoughts,  who  leans  and 

listens  best 

To  voices  of  the  future,  calling  shrill, 
With  strain  and  stress  of  troubled  des- 
tinies, 

Content  she  leaves  her  dreams  and  reveries 
For  life's  sublime  unrest. 

XIV 

With  steadfast  step  she  walks  in  darkened 

ways 

Where    women's    curses    sound,    and 
children's  cries; 


[145] 

Her  gentleness  shall  win,  her  strength  shall 

raise, 
Her   love    shall    cleanse,    her   righteous 

words  shall  burn, 
And    wasted,    piteous     baby-lips     shall 

learn 
Glad  laughter  from  her  eyes. 

xv 

Shadow  shall  shrink,  and  sunlight  shine  for 

her; 
And  love  shall  touch  her  life  like  a 

caress; 

And  loyal  human  hearts  shall  minister 
To  her  heart's  need,  who  hath  for  joy, 

for  pain, 
For  sorrow's  mourning,  ay!  and  for  sin's 

stain 
Unending  tenderness. 

XVI 

Around     her     closes,     quivering     and 

tense, 
Life's  narrow  circle  of  perplexities; 


The  clamoring  hours,  the  hurrying  events; 
Yet  shall  she  pass  through  tumult  and 

through  crowd 
Serene,  as  one  who  hears  God's  voice 

ring  loud 
Across  far  silences. 


Who   climbs   life's   mountain   walks   with 

tardy  tread, 
For  love  of  flowers  that  smile  about  his 

feet, 

For  love  of  pines  that  whisper  overhead, 
For  love   of  wandering   bird-calls,   shy 

and  sweet; 
Yet  where  the  birds  come  not,  beyond  the 

pines, 
Past  rock  and  steep  and  cloud,  the  final 

height 

Forever  rises  silent,  stainless  white, 
Where   shadow   never   falls,   where   latest 

shines 
The  lingering  light. 


[147] 


THE  COMMON  CHORD 

A  POET  sang,  so  light  of  heart  was  he, 
A  song  that   thrilled   with  joy   in 
every  word; 

It  quivered  with  ecstatic  melody; 
It  laughed  as  sunshine  laughs  upon  the  sea;      A 
It  caught  a  measure  from  each  lilting 

bird; 

But  though  the  song  rang  out  exultantly, 
The  world  passed  by,  with  heavy  step 

and  loud, 

None  heeding,  save  that,  parted  from 
the  crowd, 

Two  lovers  heard. 

There    fell   a   day    when    sudden    sorrow 

smote 

The  poet's  life.     Unheralded  it  came, 
Blotting  the  sun-touched  page  whereon  he 

wrote 


[148] 

His  golden  song.     Ah!  then,  from  all  re- 
mote, 
He  sang  the  grief  that  had  nor  hope  nor 

name 

In  God's  ear  only;  but  one  sobbing  note 
Reached  the  world's  heart,  and  swiftly, 

in  the  wake 

Of   bitterness    and    passion    and   heart- 
break, 

There  followed  fame. 


[  I49J 


SIDNEY  LANIER 

"Let  my  name  perish:  the  poetry  is  good  poetry,  and 
the  music  is  good  music;  and  beauty  dieth  not,  and  the 
heart  that  needs  it  will  find  it."  —  SIDNEY  LANIER  (letter 
to  his  wife). 

BEFORE  his  eyes  forever  shone  afar 
The  beauty  that  his  strong  soul  loved 

and  sought, 

And  fast  he  followed  it  nor  looked  behind; 
No  way  too  long,  too  rugged,  nor  too  dark 
For  his  intent,  fixed  will.  Close  after  him 
Sorrow  and  Pain  sped  on  in  swift  pursuit; 
He  felt  their  hard  hands  clutch  to  hold  him 

back; 
Their  breath  was   hot  upon  his   fevered 

cheek; 
His  eyes  were  weary,  and  his  feet  dropped 

blood; 
He   fell  at  last,  and  yet,  they  were  too 

late, 
For  folded  close  in  his  weak  hand  he  held 


The  prize  their  strength  was  impotent  to 

wrest. 

Upon  his  forehead,  growing  white  and  chill, 
His  Love,  his  Art  laid  gentle  hands  that 

blessed, 
And  on  his  spirit  fell  his  Master's  peace. 

1884 


TO   RICHARD   WATSON   GILDER 

AM  not  I  too  a  poet,  though  so  low? 
A  little  one  whose  songs   are   but 
child-cries ; 
A  half-fledged  sparrow  who  with  weak 

wings  tries 

The  God-wide  air  that  larks  have  win- 
nowed, —  flies 
For  shame  beneath  the  hedges. 

This  I  know 

When  in  a  certain  book  to-night  I  read 
How  a  true  poet  pleads :  Call  him  not  dead, 
Who,  straying  through  the  fields  of  Para- 
dise, 
Hath  met  with  Keats  and  known  him  by 

his  eyes,  — 
Sudden  my  own  eyes  filled  and  my  heart 

said: 

"O  Poet,  what  if  in  that  world  divine 
Our  Keats   should   know  those  poet-eyes 
of  thine, 


[152] 

And  claim  with  thee  a  spirit's  brotherhood 
In  love  of  beauty?  What  if  Dante  should 
(Hearing:  On  earth  this  bard  writ  The 

New  Day) 
Turn  his  grave,  searching  eyes  on  thee  and 

say: 
cThy  young  world  hath  fair  ladies,  sure, 

and  good, 
And  thou  hast  been  Love's  liegeman  true 

like  me, 
But  walked,  methinks,  a  somewhat  easier 

way.'  " 

When  God's  true  poets  meet  above  the 

skies, 

Above  all  wrong  and  failure,  it  may  be 
They  deign  to  speak,  with  gentle  words 

and  wise, 

Of  those  left  singing  yet  a  little  while 
(Here  in  the  shadow,  singing  to  the  sun) 
They  weigh  the  good  attempted,  the  good 

done, 

And,  hearing  a  true  note,  look  down  and 
smile. 

January,  1888 


[153] 


TO  A  DEAD  POET 

UNCHANGED,    serene,    the    Roman 
sky 

Watches  where  Shelley's  ashes  lie; 
About  his  grave  slow  ivy  creeps, 
On  stone  and  wall  and  cypress  sleeps 
The  silentness  of  four  score  years; 
Yet,  somewhere,  Shelley's  spirit  hears, 
Indignant,  sorrowful,  elate, 
The  story  of  the  Narva  Gate; 
And,  somewhere,  Shelley's  eyes  look  forth 
On  that  white  city  in  the  North, 
Beholding  how  the  snow  lies  red 
With  blood  of  her  most  holy  dead. 

Tumultuous  heart,  yet  wise  as  age 
To  read  the  far,  sublime  presage! 
Though  snow,  new  fallen,  fold  away 
That  piteous  blood  of  yesterday; 
Though  a  mad  people,  blind,  betrayed, 
Wreak  blood  with  blood,  thou,  unafraid, 
Must  see  no  less  a  lovelier  earth 
Slowly  from  chaos  brought  to  birth. 


[154] 

These  many  years  the  joyous  sea 

Encircles  reborn  Italy, 

But  thy  clear  message  flashes  still, 

Kindling  men's  hearts  to  deathless  will, 

Lighting  men's  holier  thought  and  speech, 

Yet  impotent  alway  to  teach 

One  lesson  to  crowned  bigotry. 

0  prophet,  prophet!  dost  thou  see 

How  "Northern  Anarchs"  cringe  and  hide 
To-day,  like  peasants  terrified, 
Under  the  patient,  scornful  sun, 
Bourbon  by  Romanoff  outdone? 

1  think  thou  hast  no  eyes  for  these, 
So  transient  are  earth's  tyrannies; 
Only  the  stricken  hope  divine 
Reaches  that  high  abode  of  thine; 
And  thou  art  glad  among  thy  peers 
To  see  men  offer  blood  and  tears, 
Exile  and  life,  in  sacrifice, 

Even  as  of  old. 

Thy  southern  skies 
Know  the  keen  call  of  battling  truth; 
Poet,  in  thine  immortal  youth, 
Come  back  to  us  one  hour  and  sing 
The  grief  and  glory  of  this  thing! 

January  23,  1905 


[i55] 


GOD  AND  THE  SINGER 


GOD  sat  in  heaven  when  all  the  harps 
were  still; 
God  leaned  and  listened,  listened  toward 

the  earth; 

Tall  angels  stood  with  finger  upon  lip. 
Only  the  stars  were  singing  as  at  first. 

God's  voice  in  heaven  was  like  a  mourning 

stream : 

"  I  hear  the  sound  of  laughter  among  men, 
I  hear  the  sound  of  trade,  of  war,  of  grief; 
I  miss  the  sound  of  singing  among  men." 

God  called  his  swiftest  angel:  "  Gabriel, 
Go  seek  me  out  a  singer  on  the  earth, 
And  bid  him  make  me  music  of  men's  deeds." 

When  Gabriel's  wings  were  silent  in  far  air, 
God  said:   "Let  play,"  and  all  the  seven- 
stringed  harps 
Made  joy  in  heaven. 


II 

The  singer  knelt  before  God's  throne  in 

heaven, 

Abashed  and  weary,  with  a  broken  lute; 
And  all  the  harps  were  still  because  God 

spoke. 

God's  voice  in  heaven  was  like  the  wistful  sea : 
"My  singer,  I  have  waited  for  thy  song." 
The  singer  spoke  in  heaven:   "Have  pity, 

Lord! 
Thine  angel  bade  me  wander  through  the 

world, 

To  make  thee  music  of  the  deeds  of  men. 
And  I  went  gladly,  ever  fain  to  sing; 
And  my  lute  whispered : '  Master,  let  us  make 
Songs  of  brave  men  in  battle,  fighting  wrong 
And  loving  death,  for  such  songs  please 

God's  ear.' 

I  stood  among  the  greatest  of  earth's  folk, 
Where  armies  mustered,  and  where  ships 

set  sail, 

And  where  the  wise  took  counsel,  so  to  hear 
Some  theme  of  glory,  and  beneath  my  hand 
I  felt  my  lute  a-thrill."     The  singer  bent 
Lower,  and  hid  his  face  from  God  in  heaven. 


[157] 

"I  learned  no  theme  of  honor  and  great 

death; 
Lord,  strong  folk  trample  weak  folk  for 

bright  gold, 

And  wise  folk  outwit  simple  for  bright  gold, 
And  liberty  is  trafficked  for  bright  gold, 
And  no  man  thinks  of  glory,  nor  of  thee." 
God  bowed  his  head  in  heaven;  the  angels 

wept. 

"  I  mightnotmake  thee  music  of  men's  deeds, 
But  my  lute  whispered:  'Master,  let  us 

make, 

Since  God  is  love,  a  new  song  of  men's  love/ 
And  I  went  gladly,  thinking  how  for  love 
Bird  mates  with  bird  and  man  with  maiden 

still, 
As  when  the  world  was  young.     Beneath 

my  hand 
I  felt  my  lute  strings  warm.     But,  when  I 

sang, 

Men  laughed  aloud  in  the  great  market- 
place, 
Crying:     'Thou    fool!     We    sell   love    for 

bright  gold!' 
Then,  Lord,  my  lute  strings  broke  under 

my  hand. 


[158] 

The  lute  no  more  gave  counsel,  but  my 

heart 
Said:    ' Yonder  men   are  praying  in   the 

church. 
Go,  and  make  God  sweet  music  of  men's 

prayers/ 

And  I  went  gladly,  knowing  song  is  prayer. 
But  when  I  knelt  before  thine  altar,  Lord, 
My  heart  grew  wise  and  terrible,  and  said: 
'That  priest  beneath  the  cross  serves  for 

bright  gold, 
That  kneeling  prince  is  perjured  for  bright 

gold, 

And  poor  men  beg  and  shiver  at  the  door.' 
Then  I  crept  forth  between  the  beggars, 

dumb. 

"I  might  not  make  thee  music  of  men's 
prayers, 

0  Lord,  nor  of  men's  loves,  nor  of  men's 

deeds. 
Behold!  my  lute  is  broken,  and  my  heart." 

God's  voice  in  heaven  was  like  a  silver  reed: 
"Arise,  my  singer,  thou  must  forth  again; 

1  know  that  there  is  music  on  my  earth." 


[159] 

The  singer  stood  and  spoke  out  bold  in 

heaven : 

"O  Lord,  if  thou  wilt  send  me  forth  again, 
I  will  not  go  to  the  great  folk  and  strong. 
Find    me    some    simple    country    on    thy 

earth, 

The  least  and  poorest,  so  its  fields  be  green, 
Where  I  may  watch  men  laugh,  and  weep, 

and  love; 
Where  I  may  heal  my  heart,  and  mend  my 

lute, 
And  sing  to  thee  of  birds  and  beasts  and 

flowers, 
And  sing  to  thee  of  clouds  and  winds  and 

seas; 

And  when  I  have  forgotten  greed  and  gold 
May   haply   make   thee   music   of   men's 

hearts." 
And  now  all  heaven  grew  fairer,  for  God 

smiled. 

God  called  his  angel  of  the  sweetest  name: 
"Go,  Raphael,  thou  shalt  lead  my  singer 

forth. 
Find  him  my  poorest  land  where  fields  are 

green, 


[i6o] 

That  he  may  heal  his  heart,  and  mend  his 
lute. 

And  sing  to  me  of  birds  and  beasts  and 
flowers, 

And  sing  to  me  of  clouds  and  winds  and 
seas, 

And,  after,  make  me  music  of  men's  hearts." 

Singer  and  angel  bowed  before  God's 
throne 

And  went  their  way.  Then  all  the  seven- 
stringed  harps 

Made  joy  in  heaven. 

in 

Again  God  sat  in  heaven  when  harps  were 

still. 
God  leaned  and  listened,  listened  toward 

the  earth; 

The  angels  stood  with  finger  upon  lip; 
Only  the  stars  were  singing  as  at  first. 
God's  voice  in  heaven  was  like  the  wind  in 

June: 

"I  hear  my  singer  in  a  small,  green  land, 
Listen,  he  makes  me  music  of  men's  hearts." 

1902 


THE   SHEPHERDS 


THE  SHEPHERDS 

First  Shepherd,  a  youth: 

I  saw  a  wonder  as  I  came  along: 

Out  of  the  sky  there  dropped  a  shining 

song. 
I  do  not  know  if  stars  in  heaven  have 

wings; 
But  look,  and  listen!   there  it  soars  and 

sings. 

Second  Shepherd,  an  old  man: 

My  eyes   are   dazzled,  for  the  light  is 
strong. 

The  Angel: 
I  bring  good  tidings,   Shepherds,  have 

no  fear: 
The  Saviour  of  the  whole  world  is  come 

near. 

A  child  is  born  to-night  in  Bethlehem 
Who  brings  great  joy  to  all,  and  most  to 

them 
Who  are  most  poor.     The  King!    The 

King  is  here! 


[i64] 

First  Shepherd: 

Where  is  his  palace?     Can  we  find  the 
way? 

Second  Shepherd: 

We  have  had  kings  enough.     Must  we 

go  pay 
More  taxes  to  a  new  one? 

The  Angel: 

Come  and  bring 
The  love  of  simple  hearts  unto  this  king. 

Third  Shepherd,  a  man  of  middle  age: 
I  could  bring  only  tears  where  a  child  lay. 

First  Shepherd  (aside): 

Why  can  he  not  forget  his  year-old  pain  ? 

Second  Shepherd  (aside): 

Hearts  that  break  slowly  will  not  heal 
again. 

The  Angel: 
Good-will,  good-will  and  peace  to  all  the 

earth! 

Born  in  a  cattle  stable,  lo!  his  birth 
Is  holy.   King  of  Love,  he  comes  to  reign. 


[165] 

Third  Shepherd: 

When  harvests  fail,  and  all  the  sheep 
are  dead, 

And  little  children  cry  and  cry  for  bread, 

Grow  tired  at  last,  and  sicken  and  lie 
still, 

Will  any  sing  of  peace  there  and  good- 
will 

To  us  who  watch  beside  an  empty  bed? 

First  Shepherd: 

I  think  that  when  the  King  of  Love  is 

grown, 
And  hearts  of  men  are  loving  like  his 

own, 
He  who  has  gold  will  with  his  brother 

share; 
There  will  be  bread  and  wine  and  fire  to 

spare; 
For   who    can   love,  yet  sit   and    feast 

alone? 

Second  Shepherd: 

Quick  let  us  go!     These  dim  old  eyes 

would  see 
A  king  who  comes  in  peace  and  poverty. 


[i66] 

First  Shepherd: 

I  see  a  hundred  white  stars  drifting  down; 
They  circle  yonder  over  Bethlehem  town. 

Chorus  of  Angels: 

Glory  to  God!    Good-will  to  men  shall 
be. 


THE   DWARF'S    QUEST 

A   BALLAD 


THE  DWARF'S  QUEST 

SIR  DAGONET  was  sad  of  heart; 
Beneath  the  city  gate 

He  watched  King  Arthur's  knights  depart; 
He  watched  in  love  and  hate. 

He  saw  great  tears  fall  from  the  eyes 

Of  Lancelot  and  the  King; 
He  thought:   "Apart  the  sweet  Queen  lies, 

And  knows  no  comforting." 

Sir  Percivale  and  Galahad 

Rode  by  in  shining  mail; 
He  marked  their  eyes,  assured  and  glad, 

And  cursed  the  Holy  Grail. 

Though  many  passed  and  saw  him  not, 

He  hoarded,  in  his  pain, 
A  smile  from  sad  Sir  Lancelot, 

Three  sweet  words  from  Gawain. 

King  Arthur's  fool  was  Dagonet, 
An  impish,  mocking  thing; 
169 


[I70] 

His  wont  by  day  to  carp  and  fret, 
At  night  to  dance  and  sing. 

The  foot  and  fist  of  rude  Sir  Kay 
He  bore  with  jest  and  sneer; 

But  wept  to  meet  on  any  day 
The  eyes  of  Guinevere. 

That  night  he  sat  without  the  gate, 

Close  by  the  city  wall, 
Till  King  and  court,  returning  late, 

Climbed  sadly  toward  the  Hall. 

He  thought  of  all  the  good  knights  bent 
On  unknown,  wandering  ways; 

He  thought  of  feast  and  tournament. 
And  laughter  of  old  days. 

He  would  not  enter  with  his  King; 

He  heard  the  warder  call, 
Yet  waited,  crouched  and  shivering, 

Beside  the  city  wall. 

Crooked  and  weak  was  Dagonet, 

What  might  to  him  avail 
The  hope  whereon  high  hearts  were  set, 

To  find  the  Holy  Grail? 


Yet  ice  and  flame  were  in  his  breast; 

He  hid  his  curling  lip, 
And  wept  for  fierce  desire  to  quest 

With  the  great  Fellowship. 

On  nameless,  shining  paths  afar, 

Where'er  the  vision  bade, 
He  saw  them  ride,  —  saw  like  a  star 

The  face  of  Galahad. 

Then  on  his  heart  fell  unforgot. 

More  soft  than  April  rain, 
The  smile  of  sad  Sir  Lancelot, 

The  sweet  words  of  Gawain. 

And  Dagonet  the  jester  laid 

His  face  against  the  stone, 
And  prayed  to  Him  who  once  had  prayed 

In  blood  and  tears  alone; 

And  lo!  a  strange  voice  reached  his  ears, 

Borne  on  soft-drifting  wings ; 
'Twas  gentler  than  Queen  Guinevere's, 

'T  was  kinglier  than  the  King's. 

It  spake:  "Thou  foolish  one,  look  up! 
Believe,  and  be  thou  glad; 


[ 


There  waits  one  vision  of  the  Cup 
For  thee  and  Galahad." 

But  Dagonet  cried:   "Lord,  to  me 

What  may  thy  grace  avail, 
Since,  late,  in  wrath  and  misery, 

I  cursed  the  Holy  Grail?" 

Low  in  the  dust  knelt  Dagonet; 

The  sweet  voice  filled  the  air: 
"Thy  cursing  lips  I  do  forget, 

Because  of  thy  heart's  prayer." 

Next  day  't  was  told  through  Camelot, 

With  pity  or  with  jest, 
That  Dagonet  the  dwarf  came  not 

Because  he  rode  the  Quest. 

Next  day  and  next,  for  many  a  day, 

Sir  Dagonet  rode  hard; 
Sometimes  deep  forest  blurred  his  way, 

Or  swollen  torrent  barred; 

But  everywhere  the  bright  spring  laid 

Her  gold  about  his  feet; 
And  every  hour  the  high  Quest  made 

Hope  at  his  heart  stir  sweet. 


[173] 

At  hermitage  and  castle  gate 

He  asked,  alway  in  vain: 
Nor  Lancelot  had  passed  of  late, 

Nor  Bors,  nor  good  Gawain. 

Now  once  it  chanced  that  his  path  ran 

Along  a  riverside, , 
Till,  where  a  chestnut  wood  began, 

He  saw  the  ways  divide. 

And  close  beneath  the  roadside  cross 
There  lay  a  wounded  knight; 

His  blood  was  black  upon  the  moss, 
And  dimmed  his  armor  bright. 

Sir  Dagonet  bent  low  and  gazed 
In  eyes  that  knew  him  not; 

Then,  weeping,  to  his  heart  he  raised 
The  head  of  Lancelot. 


Past  midnight,  when  the  moon  was  set, 
.      And  utter  dark  the  night, 
Round  Lancelot  and  Dagonet 
There  shone  a  sudden  light. 


And  in  the  light,  soft-footing,  came 
Four  maidens  grave  and  pale; 

In  lifted  hands  that  burned  like  flame. 
One  bore  the  Holy  Grail. 

Unveiled  the  Holy  Chalice  gleamed; 

Sweet  odors  filled  the  air; 
The  roadside  cross  an  altar  seemed, 

The  winds  were  chant  and  prayer. 

The  dwarf  knelt  low  in  that  blest  place, 

Adored,  and  trembled  not; 
Then,  with  swift  sorrow  on  his  face, 

He  turned  to  Lancelot. 

He  cried:   "My  lord,  awake  and  see! 

Methinks  thy  quest  is  done ! 
The  Holy  Grail  doth  shine  on  thee 

More  bright  than  moon  or  sun!" 

Sir  Lancelot  groaned,  but  spake  no  word; 

He  had  nor  voice,  nor  will; 
Perchance  the  heavy  eyelids  stirred 

One  moment,  and  were  still. 

Swift  as  it  came  the  vision  went; 
The  dwarf  moaned  bitterly: 


"My  answered  prayer  is  punishment 
Since  my  lord  might  not  see!" 

He  groped  to  find  where  the  cross  stood, 

There  was  no  ray  of  light; 
He  prayed:  "Thou  to  the  fool  art  good, 

Be  gracious  to  the  knight." 

He  cried  and  prayed  beneath  the  cross, 
With  foolish  words  and  wild; 

But  Lancelot  upon  the  moss 
Slept  like  a  little  child. 

And  in  the  dawning  of  the  day 

The  dwarf  forgot  to  weep, 
Seeing  how  fair  Sir  Lancelot  lay, 

A-smiling  in  his  sleep. 

Sir  Dagonet  fell  on  his  knee; 

He  fingered  head  and  limb; 
And  said:  "The  Grail  was  shown  to  me, 

Its  healing  was  for  him. 

"He  will  awaken  whole  and  strong 

As  ever  he  hath  been; 
He  need  not  know  his  trance  was  long, 

Nor  what  the  fool  hath  seen." 


[i76] 

He  sprang  to  horse:  "Farewell,  Sir  Knight, 

Thy  high  vow  shall  not  fail; 
Some  happier  day  thou  shalt  alight 

Upon  the  Holy  Grail." 

When  birds  from  sky  and  tree  and  ground 

Sang  loud  and  broke  his  rest, 
Sir  Lancelot  rose  blithe  and  sound 

To  fare  upon  his  quest. 

But  fast  while  morning  hours  were  cool, 
And  slow  when  noon  waxed  hot, 

Sir  Dagonet,  King  Arthur's  fool, 
Rode  back  to  Camelot. 

At  Camelot,  with  boisterous  cries, 

Men  asked  him  of  his  quest, 
Till  something  in  the  rider's  eyes 

Silenced  the  merry  jest. 

Sir  Dagonet  dwelt  with  the  court; 

He  mused  on  what  had  been; 
By  night  he  made  them  goodly  sport; 

By  day  he  served  the  Queen. 


One  slow,  still  morn  of  summer's  prime, 
Through  fields  of  yellow  grain, 

With  saddened  brow,  before  his  time, 
Rode  back  the  good  Gawain. 

But  when  the  long  nights  of  the  year 
Darkened,  and  word  came  not, 

Sir  Dagonet  and  Guinevere 
Prayed  for  Sir  Lancelot. 


Like  swallows  when  winds  first  blow  sweet, 
The  knights  came  one  by  one; 

Each  told  of  travail  and  defeat, 
And  how  his  quest  was  done. 

Till,  when  the  third  bright  June  befell, 

And  nightingales  were  glad, 
From  out  the  east  came  Bors  to  tell 

Of  young  Sir  Galahad, 

How  won  was  the  most  Holy  Quest: 

How  Percivale  and  he 
Were  laid  'neath  sacred  earth  to  rest 

In  Sarras  over  sea. 


[178] 

For  Galahad  brave  eyes  were  wet, 

And  gentle  Percivale; 
None  ever  heard  how  Dagonet 

Achieved  the  Holy  Grail. 


THE   DAUGHTER   OF  JORIO 

A   PASTORAL   TRAGEDY 

FROM  THE  ITALIAN  OF  GABRIELE  D'ANNUNZIO 
(UNFINISHED) 


THE  PERSONS  OF  THE  TRAGEDY 

Lazaro  di  Rob,  Candia  della  Leonessa,  Aligi,  Splendore, 
Favetta,  Ornella,  Maria  di  Giave,  Vienda. 

Teodula  di  Cinzio,  La  Cinerella,  Monica  della  Cogna,  Anna 
di  Bova,  Felavia  Sesara,  La  Catalana  delle  Tre 
Bisacce,  Maria  Cora. 

Mila  di  Codra. 

Femo  di  Nerfa,  lenne  dell'  Eta,  lona  di  Midia. 

The  Old  Herb  Woman,  the  Treasure  Seeker,  the  Saint  of 
the  Mountains,  the  Demoniac  Boy. 

A  Shepherd,  another  Shepherd. 

A  Reaper,  another  Reaper. 

The  Crowd. 

Chorus  of  Kinsfolk,  Chorus  of  Reapers,  Chorus  of  Mourners. 

SCENE 
The  Country  of  the  Abruzzi,  many  years  ago. 


ACT  I 

A  room  on  the  ground  floor  of  a  rustic 
house.  The  great  door  opens  upon  a  sunny 
threshing-floor;  and  a  scarf  of  scarlet  wool 
is  stretched  across  the  door  to  impede  pass- 
ers; the  scarf  is  held  at  one  end  by  a  pitch- 
fork and  at  the  other  by  a  distaff,  and 
against  one  of  the  lintels  hangs  a  cross  of 
wax  to  protect  the  house  from  evil  spirits. 
A  closed  door  draped  with  myrtle  is  in  the 
wall  at  the  right;  and  against  this  wall 
stand  three  wooden  chests.  At  the  left,  in 
the  depth  of  the  wall,  is  a  chimney  with  a 
deep  hood;  and  a  little  farther  on  a  small 
door,  and  near  this  a  loom. 

There  are  various  utensils  and  pieces  of 
furniture  about  the  room,  such  as  chests 
of  drawers,  benches,  shelves,  reels,  spindles, 
skeins  of  hemp  and  wool  hanging  upon  a 
cord  stretched  between  two  nails;  mortars, 
jars,  bowls,  salt-jars  and  flasks  made  from 
gourds  emptied  and  dried.  And  there  is 
an  ancient  kneading-trough,  on  which  is 
181 


[182] 

carved  an  image  of  Our  Lady.  There  is  a 
jug  of  water  and  a  table.  From  the  ceiling 
hangs  by  cords  a  long  shelf  laden  with 
cheeses.  Two  barred  windows  five  or  six 
feet  from  the  floor  make  light  at  the  sides  of 
the  great  door,  and  each  has  its  sprig  of  red 
buckwheat  to  ward  off  evil  spirits. 

SCENE  I 

Splendore,  Favetta,  and  Ornella,  the  three 
sisters,  are  kneeling  in  front  of  the 
three  chests  that  contain  the  bridal  out- 
fit, choosing  garments  for  the  bride. 
Their  fresh  voices  are  like  the  morning 
songs  of  birds. 

Splendore : 

What  wilt  thou  have,  Vienda,  dearest? 

Favetta : 

Our  little  sister,  newest,  nearest! 

Splendore : 

Wilt  thou  have  a  gown  of  woollen  ? 
Or  wilt  thou  have  one  soft  and  silken, 
All  with  blossoms  overspread, 
Blossoms  yellow  and  blossoms  red? 


Ornella,  singing : 

Only  green  I  would  be  wearing, 
To  San  Giovanni's  feast  a-faring. 
Green,  for  by  a  sweet  green  way 
One  came  to  woo  me  on  a  day. 
Well-a-way,  ah,  well-a-way! 

Splendore  : 

Here  is  the  bodice  of  broidery, 
And  the  little  silver  stomacher; 
Here  is  the  twelve-gored  skirt  for  her 
And  here,  little  sister,  look  and  see 
The  necklace  a  hundred  corals  long, 
That  thy  new  mother  gives  to  thee! 

Ornella,  singing : 

Only  of  green  the  drapery 

For  the  chamber  on  a  wedding-day; 

Well-a-way,  ah,  well-a-way! 

Favetta : 

What  wilt  thou  have,  Vienda,  dearest? 
Splendore :  - 

Our  little  sister,  newest,  nearest ! 
Ornella : 

Here  are  necklace  and  earrings  for  the 
bride, 


[i84] 


And  a  little  red  ribbon,  gayly  tied. 
Now  the  bell  goes  ringing,  ringing, 
The  great  bell  that  rings  at  noon. 

Splendore: 

All  the  kinsfolk  will  come  soon; 
All  the  folk,  they  come  a-bringing 
Baskets  of  the  ripe  spring  wheat, 
And  thou  art  not  ready,  sweet. 

Ornella : 

The  silly  sheep  on  the  hillside 
Feeding,  does  not  know 

How  the  wolf  seeks  through  the  valley 
To  find  where  filberts  grow, 
Fresh  little  filberts  and  pistachio. 

What  a  bride  for  early  waking! 

Like  the  little  mole  she  sleeps, 
But  he  's  up  when  dawn  is  breaking, 

And  out  the  dormouse  peeps, 
And  even  the  badger  who  sleeps  well. 
O  listen,  listen  to  the  bell! 

She  sings  her  little  song  rapidly,  then  breaks 
into  a  great  laugh;  and  the  others  laugh 
with  her. 


[185] 

The  three  sisters: 
Aligi!     Aligi!  art  thou  here? 

Splendore: 

Wilt  thou  wear  clothes  of  velvet,  dear? 

Favetta: 

Would'st  thou  like  to  sleep  for  a  century 
With  the  sleeping  beauty,  thou  and  she  ? 

Splendore: 

Thy  father  in  the  fields  is  reaping, 
Brother  mine,  since  the  day-star,  peeping, 
Was  mirrored  bright  in  the  sickle's  blade, 
The  sickle  whose  toil  is  never  stayed. 

Favetta: 

And  thy  mother  has  put  spice  in  the  wine, 
And  in  the  water  is  anise,  fine, 
And  cloves  are  thrust  into  the  meat, 
And  the  newmade  cheese  with  thyme  is 
sweet. 

Splendore: 
And   a  yearling  lamb   they   killed   last 

night, 

His  head  was  spotted  black  and  white. 
He  is  for  the  bridegroom  and  the  bride. 


[i86] 

Favetta: 

And  the  left  shoulder  is  set  aside 
For  the  old  prophet,  Ustorgio 
Of  La  Fara,  that   he  may 
Foretell   good   luck   on   your   wedding- 
day. 

Ornella: 

To-morrow,  to-morrow  is  San  Giovanni, 

Brother  dear,  it  is  San  Giovanni! 

Up  to  La  Plaia  I  will  run 

To  see  poor  San  Giovanni's  head 

Lie  within  the  rising  sun. 

To  see,  in  a  platter  of  bright  gold, 

How  his  blood  is  bubbling  red. 

Favetta: 

Up,  Vienda,  golden  head! 
Wild  periwinkles  are  thine  eyes. 
In  the  harvest-field,  new  fallen,  lies 
The  wheat  that  is  like  thy  golden  hair. 

Splendore: 

Listen,  listen,  what  says  the  mother? 
"Once  I  had  three  olive-trees, 
And  now  a  blossoming-plum  with  these, 
My  three  daughters,  and  yet  another."    j 


Ornella: 

Pale  plum-blossom,  lazy  one, 
Why  art  thou  waiting?     Writing  the  sun 
A  little  blue  letter,  that  will  pray 
Him  never,  never  set  to-day? 

She  laughs  and  her  sisters  laugh  with  her. 

SCENE  2 

From    the   little   door   enters   their   mother, 
Candia  della  Leonessa. 

Candia: 

Ah,  little  crickets,  chatterers  three, 
One  in  a  fury  of  merry  song 
Burst  his  sides  in  the  poplar-tree. 
Now  the  cocks  will  crow  no  more 
To  waken  those  who  sleep  too  long. 
There  '11  be  only  cicalas  singing  soon, 
Three  cicalas -at  high  noon. 
A  chamber  they  took  with  a  fast-shut 

door 

For  a  leafy  nook  in  the  poplar's  shade, 
But  the  bride  hears  not  a  word  that's 

said. 
Aligi!    Aligi!    O  my  son! 


[i88] 

The  door  opens  and  the  bridegroom  comes  in, 
gravely  saluting. 

Aligi: 

Praised  be  Maria  and  Gesu! 

And  you,  O  mother,  who  gave  to  me 

This  flesh  baptized  in  the  Trinity. 

Mother,  blessed  may  you  be! 

Blessed  be  ye,  sisters  three, 

Flowers  of  this  blood  of  mine, 

Forgive,  for  me,  the  cross  I  sign 

On  the  brow,  that,  there,  the  evil  one 

May  never  pass  in  life  or  death; 

That  flame  touch  not,  nor  fiery  breath, 

Nor  taint  of  poison,  nor  any  stain; 

That  tears  bathe  not,  nor  sweat  of  pain. 

Holy  Spirit,  Father,  Son! 

The  sisters  cross  themselves  and  gathering 
up  the  garments  pass  through  the  little 
door.  Aligi  draws  near  to  his  mother 
as  if  under  a  spell. 

Candia: 

Flesh  of  my  living  flesh,  I  touch  thy  brow 
With  this  bread  that  is  made  of  finest 
wheat, 


[i89] 

Made  in  the  trough  that  was  a  century 

old 
Before  thy  birth,   yes,   and  before  my 

birth, 

Rolled  out  upon  the  board  a  century  old, 
Moulded     with     these  my    hands   that 

tended  thee. 

I  touch  thy  forehead  that  it  may  be  pure, 
I  touch  thy  breast  that  it  be  without 

pain; 
I  touch  this  shoulder,  so,  and  this,  that 

they 
May   guide   thy    arms,    arms    that  are 

strong  for  toil, 
And  that  thy  love  may  lean  her  sweet 

cheek  here. 
Oh,    may    Christ    speak    to    thee,    and 

mayest  thou  hear! 

With  the  bread  the  mother  makes  the  sign  of 
the  cross  over  her  son  who  falls  on  his     , 
knees  before  her. 

Aligi: 

I  laid  me  down  and  slept,  and  dreamed 
of  Christ; 


[  190  ] 

Christ  spoke  to  me  and  said:    "Be  not 

afraid." 
And  San  Giovanni  spoke:    "Be  sure," 

he  said, 
"Without  the  taper's  light  thou  wilt  not 

lie;" 
He  said:    "An  evil  death  thou  wilt  not 

die." 

And  you,  O   mother!   have  chosen  for 

me  my  fate, 
O!  mother  you  have  chosen  a  bride  for 

me, 

A  bride  for  your  son,  in  your  house  to  be. 
My  mother,  you  have  brought  to  me  a 

bride, 
That  with  me  on  the  pillow  she  may 

sleep ; 
That  she  and  I  may  eat  from  the  one 

dish. 

I  pasture  flocks  upon  the  mountain  side; 
O    mother!     I    must    go    back    to    my 

sheep ! 

The  mother  touches  his  brow  with  her  hand 
as  if  to  drive  away  an  evil  shadow. 


Candia: 

Rise  up,  rise  up,  my  son,  strange   words 

are  these! 
Thy  words  change  colour  even  while  thou 

dost  speak, 
As  when  the  wind  blows  through  the 

olive-trees. 

The  son  rises,  dazed. 

Aligi: 

Where  is  my  father  that  I  see  him  not? 

Candia: 

Down  in  the  wheat-field  with  the  har- 
vesters, 

Binding  the  sheaves  there  in  the  grace 
of  God. 

Aligi: 

I  reaped  the  grain  once  in  his  body's 

shade. 

I  was  so  little  that  I  had  not  made 
My  first  communion.     My  head  reached 

his  thigh. 
The   first  time   that  I  struck,  I  cut  a 

vein, 


[  192  ] 

Here,  where  the  scar  is.  With  fresh 
leaves  they  stayed 

The  flowing  of  the  blood.  My  father 
said: 

"Aligi,  son,"  he  said,  "Aligi,  son, 

Give  up  the  sickle,  and  take  to  thee  the 
crook, 

And  be  a  shepherd  on  the  mountain- 
side." 

And  all  that  he  commanded  has  been 
done. 

Candia: 

My  son,  my  son,  what  is  it  pains  thee 

thus? 

Perhaps  it  is  the  burden  of  thy  dream? 
Thy  words  are  like  the  twilight  when  it 

falls, 

And  one  sits  on  the  stone  by  the  wayside, 
And  follows  not  the  road,  because  he 

knows 
He  may  not  come  where  his  heart  doth 

abide, 
When  twilight  falls  while  yet  one  cannot 

hear 
The  Ave  Maria  sounding  far  or  near. 


[  193] 

Aligi: 

Back  to  the  mountain  I  must  be  return- 
ing. 

Mother,  where  have  you  put  my  shep- 
herd's crook 

Which  knows  by  night  and  day  the 
grassy  paths? 

I  want  it,  when  our  kinsfolk  come  to-day, 

That  they  may  see  how  I  have  carved 
it  all. 

The  mother  brings  the  crook  from  a  corner 
near  the  fireplace. 

Candia: 

Here  it  is,  son;  thy  sisters,  look  and  see, 
For  San  Giovanni  they  have  decked  it 

out 

With  red  clove-pinks  and  spicy  garden 
herbs. 

Aligi,  showing  the  carving: 

I  have  them  in  the  red  wood  of  my  crook, 
Always,  and  in  my  hand,  my  sisters  three, 
Who  go  with  me  along  the  grassy  paths. 
Here  are  three  little  maidens,  mother, 
look, 


[  194] 

And  here  three  angels  flying  over  them, 
And  here  three  trailing  stars,  and  here 

three  doves, 
And  for  each  one  I  have  made  a  little 

flower, 
And  this  is  the  sun,  and  this  the  crescent 

moon; 

This  is  the  stole,  and  this  the  sacrament; 
And  this,  see,  this  is  San  Biagio's  tower. 
This  is  the  river,  here,  and  this  my  house, 
But  who  is  this  that  stands  within  the 

door? 

Candia: 

Aligi,   Aligi,   why  wilt  thou   make   me 
weep  ? 

Aligi: 

And  there,  low  down,  near  to  the  iron 

foot, 
There  is  the  shepherd,  and  there  are  the 

sheep ; 
Shepherd  and  sheep  and  mountain  all  are 

there. 

I  must  go  to  the  mountain  and  the  sheep, 
Even  though  you  weep,  my  mother,  even 

though  I  weep. 


He  leans  both  hands  on  the  crook  and  bows 
his  head  absorbed  in  thought. 

Candia: 

And  Hope,  Aligi,  where  hast  thou  put 
her? 

Aligi: 

Her  face  I  never  yet  could  learn  to  know, 
That  I  might  carve  it,  mother,  verily. 

A  wild  clamor  is  heard  far  off. 

O  mother,  who   is  this  that  shrieks  so 
loud? 

Candia: 

It  is  the  tumult  of  the  harvesters; 
God  save  them  from  the  madness  of  the 

sun; 
And  may  the  Baptist  keep  their  hands 

from  blood! 

Aligi: 

Mother,    whoever    put    that    red    scarf 

there, 
Stretched  out  across  the  doorway  of  our 

house, 
And  leaned  the  distaff  and  the  pitchfork 

there? 


If  evil  things  are  not  to  enter  there. 
Ah,  pile  the  plough  and  cart  and  oxen 

there. 
Against  the  sill,  and  heap  up  stones  and 

sods, 

And  all  the  lime  of  all  the  furnaces, 
And  the  rock  with   Samson's    footprint 

pile  above, 
And    heap    Maiella    there   with    all    its 

snows. 


Candia: 

My  son,  what  is  it  stirring  in  thy  heart? 
Christ  said  to  thee  that  thou  shouldst 

have  no  fear. 
Art  thou  awake?     Look  at  the  cross  of 

wax, 

For  it  was  blessed  on  last  Ascension  Day; 
And  holy  water  was   sprinkled  on  the 

hinge. 

There  is  no  evil  thing  can  enter  there. 
It  was   thy  sisters   stretched   the   scarf 

across. 
It  is  the  prize  that  thou  thyself  didst 

win, 


[  197  ] 

Before  thou  hadst  turned  shepherd,  O 

my  son, 
Didst  win    it,  victor   in  the  ploughing 

match. 
Dost  thou  remember?  They  have  placed 

it  there 
That  it  may  stop  our  kinsfolk  as  they 

pass, 
That,  passing,  each  may  give  a  pleasant 

gift. 
Why  dost    thou    ask?     Thou    knowest 

the  custom  well. 

Aligi: 

O  mother,  I  have  slept  seven  hundred 

years, 
Seven  hundred  years;  and  I  am  come 

from  far.. 
My  cradle,  mother,  I  remember  not. 

Candia: 

What    is    the    matter,    son?     Are    thy 

words  mad? 
Has  thy  bride  poured  for  thee,  perchance, 

black  wine, 
And  thou,  from  fasting,  art  frenzied  by 

the  wine, 


[198] 

So     that    thy     feeling     overbears     thy 
thought? 

0  Mary,  Virgin,  give,  oh,  give  me  peace! 

Voice  of  Ornella,  singing: 
Only  the  green  I  would  be  wearing, 
To  San  Giovanni's  feast  a-faring; 
Green,  for  by  a  sweet  green  way 
One  came  to  win  me  on  a  day,  — 
Well-a-way,  ah,  well-a-way! 

SCENE  3 

The  bride  enters,  accompanied  by  the 
sisters  of  Aligi  and  is  welcomed  by  his 
mother  with  various  household  ceremonies. 
An  evil  omen  follows:  Fienda  and  Aligi  are 
solemnly  seated  before  the  door  of  the  bridal 
chamber,  when  Fienda,  rising  suddenly,  lets 
the  split  loaf  of  bread,  which  Candia  has 
given  her,  fall  to  the  floor.  All  are  filled  with 
dismay.  Ornella  calls  upon  San  Sisto  to 
drive  all  evil  from  their  home. 

1  Miss  Jewett  was  at  work  upon  this  translation  during 
the  last  summer  of  her  life,  but  did  not  complete  it.     The 
editors  have  briefly  indicated  the  plot  of  the  longer  por- 
tions omitted:  Act  I,  Scenes  3,  4,  and  5,  and  Act  III. 


[  199] 

SCENE  4 

The  kinswomen  come  in,  bearing  on  their 
heads  baskets  of  grain  trimmed  with  ribbons. 
Upon  the  grain  in  each  basket  lies  a  loaf  of 
bread  and  in  each  loaf  a  flower  is  thrust. 
The  women  enter  one  by  one  with  rural  cere- 
monies, calling  down  blessings  upon  the 
bride  at  whose  feet  they  place  the  baskets. 
They  scatter  a  little  grain  upon  the  heads  of 
bride  and  bridegroom.  A  bell  is  ringing. 
Without  are  heard  the  voices  of  reapers; 
they  seem  to  increase  in  number  and  to  draw 
nearer.  Suddenly  a  woman's  cry  is  heard: 
"Help  for  Christ's  sake.  People  of  God, 
people  of  God,  save  me!" 

SCENE  5 

The  woman  rushes  in,  breathless  from 
haste  and  fright.  She  is  covered  with  dust 
and  thorns,  like  a  hunted  animal.  She 
cowers  in  the  chimney  corner,  calling  upon 
the  good  people  to  save  her;  to  shut  and  bolt 
the  door:  the  reapers,  crazed  by  sun  and  by 
wine,  are  after  her  like  mad  dogs.  The 


[  2OO  ] 

other  women  crowd  together  on  the  opposite 
side  of  the  room.  Suddenly  Ornella  runs 
and  shuts  and  bolts  the  door.  She  approaches 
the  frightened  stranger,  speaking  gently,  and 
brings  her  a  bowl  of  wine  and  water.  The 
uproar  without  grows  louder  and  nearer; 
the  reapers  call  brutally  and  beat  upon  the 
door.  One  of  them  looks  through  the  window 
bars  and  spies  the  stranger;  at  this  the  mob 
grows  wilder.  They  call  out  to  Candia  that 
the  girl  she  is  hiding  is  Mila  di  Codra,  the 
daughter  of  the  magician,  Jorio.  They  use 
threats  and  evil  words  at  which  the  sisters 
stop  their  ears.  The  kinsfolk  clamor,  urging 
Aligi  to  drive  the  stranger  forth;  his  mother 
commands  him  to  do  so.  He  approaches 
Mila  and  draws  aside  the  veil  which  has 
covered  her  head.  He  stares  at  her  as  if 
bewitched,  forgetting  to  drop  the  end  of  the 
veil.  Then  he  starts  to  drive  her  out.  Mila 
begs  for  protection  and  warns  him  that  the 
hearth  is  sacred,  where  she  has  taken  refuge. 
Aligi,  blind  with  rage  and  fear  at  the  viola- 
tion of  his  hearth,  raises  his  crook  to  strike 
her.  His  sisters  try  to  protect  her,  weeping. 
Suddenly  Aligi  falls  on  his  knees,  crying 


[201  ] 

out  that  he  sees  the  mute  angel  weeping  like 
his  sisters.  It  is  he  who  has  sinned  against 
the  hearth.  He  begs  his  sisters  to  pray  for 
him  and  to  care  for  Mila,  and  he  takes 
the  flowers  of  San  Giovanni  from  his  crook 
and  lays  them  at  her  feet.  He  tries  to  burn 
the  offending  hand  with  a  coal  from  the  fire. 
The  threats  of  the  reapers  are  renewed  with 
more  and  more  violence.  The  women  kneel 
and  begin  the  Litany.  Aligi  places  the  wax 
crucifix  upon  the  threshold  and  opens  the 
door:  "Good  Christians,  this  cross  was 
blessed  upon  Ascension  Day.  I  have  placed 
it  on  the  threshold  that  you  may  guard  your- 
selves from  sinning  against  the  poor  girl 
who  has  taken  refuge  on  this  hearth.  Reapers 
of  Norca,  may  Heaven  help  you."  The 
reapers  uncover,  reach  out  their  hands  to 
touch  the  cross,  put  their  hands  to  their  lips 
and  silently  withdraw.  The  Litany  con- 
tinues. Lazaro  di  Roio  comes  in,  wounded, 
his  head  bound  up.  Mila  veils  herself 
again  and  creeps  to  the  door,  waiting  a  chance 
to  escape. 


[  202  ] 


ACT  II 

A  mountain  cavern  'partly  furnished  with 
boards,  brushwood,  and  straw,  with  a  wide 
opening  toward  a  stony  path.  Through  the 
cave's  great  mouth  are  seen  green  pastures, 
snowy  peaks,  wandering  clouds.  There  are 
couches  of  sheepskins,  tables  of  rough  wood, 
wallets  and  wine  skins,  full  and  empty. 
There  is  a  turner's  lathe  for  turning  and  carv- 
ing, with  hatchet,  plane,  knife,  file  and  other 
instruments,  and  near  by  finished  objects: 
distaffs,  spindles,  ladles,  spoons,  mortars 
and  pestles,  shepherds'  pipes,  whistles,  candle- 
sticks. There  is  a  block  of  walnut  wood  that 
at  bottom  still  appears  formless,  incased  in  its 
bark,  but  above  shows  the  figure  of  an  angel 
roughly  hewn  out  with  the  chisel,  down  to  the 
waist,  and  with  the  wings  almost  finished. 
An  olive-oil  lamp  is  burning  before  the  image 
of  Our  Lady  in  a  hollow  of  the  rock  as  in 
a  niche.  A  shepherd's  pipe  hangs  near. 
Sheep  bells  are  heard  in  the  silence  of  the 
mountain.  It  is  late  afternoon  of  a  day 
in  early  autumn. 


[203  ] 

SCENE  I 

Malde,  the  treasure-seeker,  and  Anna 
Onna,  the  old  herb-woman,  stretched  out  in 
their  rags,  are  asleep  on  the  sheepskins. 
Cosma,  the  saint,  dressed  in  a  coat  of  skin, 
sleeps  also,  but  seated,  with  his  chin  resting 
on  his  clasped  knees.  Aligi  is  sitting  on  a 
bench,  engaged  in  carving  with  his  tools  the 
block  of  walnut  wood.  Mila  di  Codra  sits 
opposite  him,  looking  at  him. 

Mila: 

Oh,  he  was  mute,  the  Saint 

Carved  of  the  walnut  tree; 
Deaf  was  the  holy  wood, 

Sant'  Onofrio  naught  said  he. 

But  then  the  maiden  spoke 

(Miserere  Domine). 
But  then  the  beauty  spoke: 

"Here  is  my  heart,"  said  she. 

"  If  he  will  have  blood  for  his  cure, 
Take  my  heart's  blood  of  me; 

But  cover  the  secret  sure, 
Let  him  never,  never  see." 


[204] 

And,  sudden,  a  shoot  is  seen 

Between  the  wooden  lips, 
Then  Sant'  Onofrio  grows  green 

At  all  his  finger  tips. 

She  stoops  to  pick  up  shavings  and  splinters. 

Aligi: 

Mila,  this,  too,  is  wood  of  the  walnut 

tree. 

Will  it  grow  green,  Mila,  grow  green 
again? 

Mila,  bending  down  to  the  ground: 
"  If  he  will  have  blood  for  his  cure, 
Take  my  heart's  blood  of  me"  — 

Aligi: 

Will  it  grow  green,  Mila,  grow  green 
again  ? 

Mila: 

"But  cover  the  secret  sure, 
Let  him  never,  never  see!" 

Aligi: 

O  Mila,  let  the  miracle  absolve  us! 
Let  the  mute  angel  here  protect  us  still, 


[205  1 

For,   carving    him,    I    do   not    use   my 

tools, 
I  work  but  with  my  soul  held  in  my 

hand. 
What  art  thou  seeking  there?  What 

hast  thou  lost? 

Mila: 

I  gather  up  the  splinters  and  will  burn 

them, 
And  with  each  one  a  little  grain  of 

incense. 

Aligi,  hasten,  hasten,  for  time  passes, 
Half-full  already  is  the  September  moon. 
The   shepherds   already   they   begin   to 

leave, 
Those  who  go  Puglia  way,  and  those  for 

Rome. 
And  whither  will  my  love,  my  shepherd, 

go? 
Where  he  may  take  his  way  let  there  be 

meadows 
And  springs  of  water,   and  never  any 

wind, 
And  let  him  think  of  me  when  it  grows 

night! 


[206] 

Aligi: 

Mila,  Aligi  toward  Rome  will  travel. 
He  will  go  where  they  go  by  all  the  roads, 
Leading  his  flock  toward  Rome,  toward 

Rome  the  Great, 
That  he  may  get  him  pardon  from  the 

Vicar, 
Forgiveness   from   the  Vicar  of  Christ 

Our  Lord, 
Because    he    is    the    Shepherd    of    the 

shepherds. 

Not  to  Apulia  this  year  will  he  journey, 
But  to  Our  Lady  of  the  Schiavonia 
Send  by  the  hand  of  Alai  of  Averna 
These  candlesticks  carved  out  of  cypress 

wood, 
And  with  them  he  will  send  two  little 

candles, 
That  she  may  not  forget  him,  though  a 

sinner, 
Our  Lady  who  keeps  watch  upon  the 

shore. 
And  the  Angel,  Mila,  when  it  shall  be 

finished, 

This  Angel  he  will  load  upon  a  mule, 
And  with  him,  step  by  step,  will  carry  it. 


[207  ] 

Mila: 

O  hasten,  hasten,  Aligi,  for  time  passes, 

From  the  girdle  down  the  Angel  still  is 
hidden 

In  the  block,  and  still  its  two  feet  are 
fast  bound 

In  the  wood,  and  still  its  hands  are  with- 
out fingers, 

And  the  eyes  are  on  the  same  line  with 
the  forehead. 

Thou  didst  linger  long  making  the 
Angel's  wings 

Feather  by  feather,  but  it  cannot  fly. 

Aligi: 

Gostanzo  the  painter,  he  will  aid  me, 

Mila. 

Gostanzo  of  Bisegna,  he  who  paints 
The  histories  that  make  our  carts  so  gay. 
Already  he  and  I  have  planned  together 
How  he  will  give  me  of  his  finest  colors; 
And  the  brothers,  it  may  be,  at  the  Badia, 
For  a  little  lamb  will  give  a  bit  of  gold 

leaf 
To  put  upon  the  wings  and  round  the 

throat. 


[208] 

Mila: 

O  hasten,  hasten,  Aligi,  for  time  passes, 
Already  the  night  is  longer  than  the  day, 
And  from  the  plain  the  shadow  rises 

early, 

Early  and  swiftly  when  one  is  not  think- 
ing, 
So   that  the   eye   directs   the   hand   no 

longer, 
And  the  blind  chisel  cannot  aid  thy  skill. 

Cosma  stirs  in  his  sleep  and  moans.  Far 
off  is  heard  the  holy  chant  of  the 
pilgrimage. 

Cosma  is  dreaming,  and  who  knows  what 
he  dreams? 

Listen,  the  song  of  the  company  of  pil- 
grims, 

Who  are  crossing  over  the  mountain  to 
go  down, 

Perhaps,  to  Santa  Maria  della  Potenza, 

Aligi,  toward  thy  land,  thy  land  they  go; 

Toward  thine  own  house  there  where 
thy  mother  dwells; 

Perhaps  they  will  pass  by  at  little  dis- 
tance, 


[209] 

And  the  mother  will  hear  them  singing, 

and  Ornella, 
Perhaps,   and  they  will  say:    "Listen, 

these  pilgrims 
Are  coming  down  from  the  cabins  of  the 

shepherds, 
And  never  a  message  has  been  sent  to 

us!" 

Aligi  is  bending  down  shaping  roughly  with 
the  hatchet  the  lower  part  of  the  block. 
He  gives  one  blow  and,  leaving  the  iron 
in  the  woody  rises  anxiously. 

Aligi: 

Why  wilt  thou  touch  the  heart  where 

most  it  hurts? 
I  will  run  down  and  meet  them  in  the 

roadway, 

Mila,  and  beg  the  crucifer  to  carry 
A  message  —  but,  oh,  what,  what  shall 

I  say? 

Mila: 

Say  to  him:  "O  good  crucifer,  I  pray  thee, 
If  thou  pass  through  the  valley  of  San 
Biagio, 


[210] 

Through  the  countryside  that  they  call 

Acquanova, 
Ask  for  a  house,  the  house  there  of  a 

woman 

Who  is  called  Candia  della  Leonessa. 
Halt  there,  for  thou  wilt  surely  have  from 

her 

A  bit  of  food  and  drink,  and  it  may  be 
Thou  wilt  have  more.     Halt  there,  and 

say:  'Thy  son 

Aligi  salutes  thee,  and  salutes  his  sisters 
With  thee,  salutes  also  his  bride,  Vienda, 
And  sends  his  promise  that  he  will 

descend, 
That  he  may  have  thy  blessing  once 

again 

In  peace,  before  he  needs  must  go  away; 
And  he  assures  thee  that  he  now  is  free 
From  evil  and  from  peril;  he  is  free, 
Forever  free,  from  the.  false  enemy; 
And   never   again  will   he   be   cause  of 

anger, 
And  never  again  be  cause  of  grief  and 

tears 
To  his  mother,  to  his  bride,  nor  to  his 


[211] 

Aligi: 

O  Mila,  Mila,  what  is  the  wind  that 
beats 

Upon  thy  soul  and  sways  thee?  A  sud- 
den wind, 

A  wind  of  fear.  And  thy  voice  is  grown 
faint 

Upon  thy  lips,  and  all  the  blood  has  left 

Thy  face.  Mila,  why  wouldst  thou  have 
me  send 

A  lying  message  to  my  mother's  house? 

Mila: 

In  truth,  in  truth,  in  very  truth  I  speak, 
O  brother,  brother  mine,   dear  to  thy 

sister, 

As  true  as  that  I  never  sinned  with  thee, 
But  I  was  as  a  taper  burning  ever 
Before  thy  faith,  and  shining  with  the 

light 

Of  love  immaculate,  adoring  thee. 
In  truth,  in  truth,  in  very  truth  I  speak, 
And  say:    Go,  go,  run    down    into    the 

road, 

And  seek  the  crucifer,  that  he  may  bear 
The  message  of  thy  peace  to  Acquanova. 


[  212  ] 

The  parting  hour  has  come,  the  hour  has 

come 
For  Jorio's  daughter,  and  so  let  it  be. 

Aligi: 

Surely  of  the  wild  honey  thou  hast  eaten, 
And  all  thy  mind  is  vexed.     Where  wilt 
thou  go? 

Mila: 

I  will  go  where  they  go  by  all  the  roads. 

Aligi: 

Ah,  come  with  me  then,  Mila,  come  with 

me! 

The  way  is  long,  is  long,  but  thee  also 
I  will  mount  on  my  mule,  and  we  will  go, 
We  two,  with  hope,  and  travel  toward 
great  Rome. 

Mila: 

No,  no,  I  must  needs  go  another  way, 
Swiftly,  on  my  own  feet,  and  without  hope. 

Aligi  turns  to  the  old  woman,  who  sleeps. 

Aligi: 

Ho,  Anna  Onna,  there!    Wake  up!   Get 
up! 


[213  ] 

And  go  and  seek  for  me  black  hellebore, 
That  it  may  bring  this  woman's  wits 
again. 

Mila: 

Do  not  be  angry,  Aligi,  for  if  thou  art, 
Even  thou,  angry  with  me,  how  shall  I 

live 
Until  the  night?     From  underneath  thy 

heel, 
Aligi,  I  shall  not  gather  up  my  heart. 

Aligi: 

To  my  own  house  I  never  will  return, 
Daughter  of  Jorio,  except  with  thee, 
Mila  di  Codra,  mine  by  sacrament. 

Mila: 

Aligi,  Aligi,  shall  I  again  pass  over 

That  threshold  where  the  cross  of  wax 
was  laid? 

There  where  a  man  appeared  with  bleed- 
ing head; 

And  the  man's  son  spoke  there  and  said 
to  him: 

"If  that  blood  is  unjust,  thou  mayst  not 
pass." 


And  it  was  noon,  the  vigil  of  the  day 
Of  San  Giovanni.     It  was  harvest  time. 
The  sickle  now  hangs  idle  on  the  wall, 
The  grain  lies  resting  in  the  granary, 
But  the  pain  sown  that  day  is  growing 

still. 

Cosma  stirs,  groaning  in  his  sleep. 

Aligi: 

But  dost  thou  know  who  will  lead  thee 
by  the  hand? 

Cosmo,,  shrieking: 

No,  do  not  loose  him!  do  not  let  him  go! 

SCENE  2 

The  saint  opens  his  arms,  lifting  his  face 
from  his  hands. 

Mila: 

What  art  thou  dreaming,  Cosma?  Cosma, 
speak! 

Cosma  wakens,  and  rises. 

Aligi: 

What  hast  thou  seen,  O  Cosma?  Cosma, 
speak! 


Cosma: 

Horrible  things  came  to  me  in  my  sleep. 
I  saw  —  I  dare  not  tell  what  I  have  seen. 
Oh,  every  dream  that  comes  from  God 

must  be 
Made  pure  with  fire,  before  it  can  be 

told. 

I  saw,  I  saw,  and,  surely,  I  will  tell  — 
But  let  me  not  profanely  use  the  name 
Of  God,  my  God,  interpreting  the  dream, 
Now,  while  the  darkness  still  is  over  me. 

Aligi: 

Cosma,  thou  art  a  saint,  for  many  years 

Thou  hast  bathed  thyself  with  water 
from  the  snow, 

With  water  flowing  from  the  mountain- 
side 

Thou  hast  quenched  thy  thirst  under 
the  open  sky. 

To-day  thou  hast  been  sleeping  in  my 
cave, 

Upon  my  sheepfells  that  have  been  made 
clean 

With  sulphur  that  can  keep  the  night- 
mare off. 


[216] 

Thou  hast  seen  visions,  Cosma,  in  thy 

sleep, 

The  eye  of  the  Lord  God  is  upon  thee. 
Then  with  thy  understanding  succor  me. 
Now  I  will  speak  to  thee;  do  thou  reply. 

Cosma: 

O  boy,  true  wisdom  I  have  never  learned, 
And  I  have  no  more  understanding  mind 
Than  has  the  pebble  in  the  shepherd  path. 

Aligi: 

0  Cosma,  man  of  God,  listen  to  me. 

1  pray  thee  by  the  Angel  hidden  there 
In  the  block,  that  has  no  ears  and  yet 

does  hear. 

Cosma: 

Speak  out  then,  shepherd,  speak  straight 

words, 

And  do  not  put  thy  faith  in  me, 
But  in  the  holy  truth  have  faith. 

Malde  and  Anna  Onna  rise  up  and  rest  on 
their  elbows  to  listen. 

Aligi: 

O   Cosma,    Cosma,    this    is  holy  truth: 


[2I7] 

From  the  plain  of  Puglia  I  came  back  to 

the  mountain, 
Leading  my  flock,  the  day  of  Corpus 

Christi. 
When  I  had  found  a  spot  to  make  my 

sheepfold, 
Down  to  my  house  I  went  to  spend  three 

days. 
And  in  my  house,  Cosma,  I  found  my 

mother 
Who  said  to  me:   "My  dear  son,  I  will 

give  thee 
A  bride."  And  I  made  answer:  "Mother, 

always 
I  have  kept  thy  commandments,"  and 

she  said, 
"  'T  is  well,  my  son,  this  is  thy  bride." 

They  made 
The  wedding  feast,  and  all  the  kinsfolk 

came 
With  me,  to  bring  the  new  bride  to  our 

house. 
And  I  was  like  a  man  on  the  farther 

shore 
Of  a  stream,  who  sees  the  things  that  lie 

beyond 


I2l8] 

The  water,  while  through  the  midst  he 

sees 

Tfye  water  flow,  that  flows  eternally. 
Cosma,   'twas   Sunday,   and  I  had  not 

drunk 
Of  wine  made  heavy  with  the  poppy 

seeds. 

Cosma,  why  did  a  great  sleep  fall  on  me, 
And  overpower  my  forgetful  heart? 
Cosma,  I  think  I  slept  seven  hundred 

years. 

On  Monday  it  was  late  when  we  arose. 
My   mother   broke   the   loaf   of   bread 

above 
The  maiden's  head,  who  only  wept  and 

wept. 
And  I  had  never  touched  her.     Then  our 

kin 
Came  bringing  baskets  filled  with  wheat 

for  us. 

But  I  was  silent,  always,  and  most  sad, 
As  if  I  stood  within  the  shadow  of  death. 
And,  see,  upon  a  sudden  enter  there 
This  woman  trembling  all  from  head  to 

foot. 
The  reapers  they  were  persecuting  her, 


[219] 

The  dogs!    And  she  was  praying  us  for 

help. 
And  none  of  us,  Cosma,  not  one  would 

stir, 

Only  my  little  sister,  the  smallest  one, 
Ran,  and  was  brave  enough  to  close  the 

door. 
And  then  the  door  is  battered  by  those 

dogs, 

Cosma,  with  every  sort  of  vile  abuse. 
And  they  cry  out  against  this  woman 

here, 

With  lying  mouths  and  hateful  words. 
And  the  kinsfolk  wish  to  throw  her  to 

the  pack. 
And    she,    all    sorrowful,    close    by   the 

hearth, 
Begs  mercy  that  they  may  not  slaughter 

her. 
Then  I,  myself,   I  seize  and  drag  her 

there, 

In  hate  and  fear;  and  't  is  as  if  I  dragged 
My  own  heart  when  I  was  a  little  child. 
And  she  cries  out,  and  I,  —  O,  I  lift  up 
My  staff  against  her.  And  my  sisters 

weep. 


[  220  ] 

And  then,  behind  her,  Cosma,  with  these 

eyes, 
I  see,  I  see  the  Angel  stand,  that  weeps. 

0  Saint,   I   see.  it!     The   Angel   looks 

on  me, 

It  weeps,  and  does  not  speak.     And  then 
I  kneel. 

1  beg  for  pardon.     And  to  punish  this 
My  hand,  I  reach  and  take  from  off  the 

hearth 

A  burning  coal.     "No,  do  not  burn  thy- 
self!" 
The  woman  cries.     And  then  she  speaks 

to  me. 
O  Cosma,  O  thou  saint,  with  water  of 

snow 
Thou   dost  baptize  thyself  dawn  after 

dawn; 
And  thou,  old  woman,  canst  tell  all  the 

herbs 
That  heal  all  evils  known  to  Christian 

flesh, 

The  virtues  thou  dost  know  of  every  root; 
And  thou,  Malde,  with  that  forked  wand 

of  thine 
Discernest  where  the  buried  treasures  lie 


[221  ] 

At  the  feet  of  the  dead,  who  have  been 
long  time  dead  — 

For  a  hundred  years,  for  a  thousand 
years,  I  know, 

And  deep  they  are  buried  in  the  moun- 
tain, deep  — 

And  now  I  will  ask  of  you,  of  you  who 
hear 

The  things  that  come  from  far,  and  far 
away, 

What  voice  was  it,  and  from  what  dis- 
tances, 

That  came  and  spoke  so  that  Aligi  heard  ? 

Answer  me,  all  of  you.     She  said  to  me: 

"How  wilt  thou  tend  thy  flock  if  thou 
thyself, 

Shepherd  Aligi,  hurtest  thine  own  hand  ?" 

And  with  that  word  she  seemed  to  gather 
up 

The  very  soul  of  me  from  out  my  bones, 

As  thou,  old  woman,  gatherest  an  herb! 

Mila  weeps  silently. 

Anna  Onna: 

There    is    a    red    herb    that   they    call 
glaspi, 


[  222  ] 

And  another,  white,  and  it  is  called 
egusa, 

And  the  one  grows  and  the  other,  far 
apart, 

But  the  roots  beneath  the  ground  they 
find  each  other, 

Under  the  blind  earth,  and  they  inter- 
twine 

So  closely  that  not  even  Santa  Lucia 

Discerns  them.  And  their  leaves  are 
different, 

But  they  bear  the  same  flower,  each 
seven  years. 

And  this  also  is  written  in  the  books, 

And  Cosma  knows  the  power  of  the  Lord. 

Aligi: 

O  listen,  Cosma,  that  forgetful  sleep, 
From  whence,  from  whom  was  it  sent 

to  my  bed? 
A  maiden's  innocent  hand  it  was  that 

closed 

The  door  of  safety;  and  to  me  appeared 
The  Angel  of  good  counsel;    and   one 

word 
Upon  the  lip  made  an  eternal  bond. 


[223  ] 

Which  woman  was  my  wife  there  by  the 

sign 
Of  the  good  grain,  of  the  bread  and  of 

the  flower? 

Cosma: 

Shepherd  Aligi,  listen,  the  just  scales 
And  the  just  weight  and  balance  are  of 

God. 

And  do  thou  still  take  heed  to  understand 
The  mind  of  Him  in  whom  thy  safety 

lies; 
Take  thou  from  Him  a  pledge  for  the 

unknown  one. 
But  she  thou  didst  not  touch,  where  is 

she  now? 

Aligi: 

I  left  for  the  sheep-fold  at  vesper-time, 
That   vigil  of    San   Giovanni.     At  the 

dawn 

I  found  myself  above  at  Capracinta, 
And   stood,   and   waited   for  the   rising 

sun. 

And  in  the  sun's  red  ring  I  saw  the  face 
Of  the  Beheaded.     Then  I  sought  my 

fold, 


[  224] 

Took  up  again  my  pasturing  and  my 

pain. 
And  it  seemed  always    that    my  sleep 

endured, 
And  that  my  flock  was  feeding  on  my 

life. 
And,    oh,    my    heart,    how    heavily    it 

weighed ! 
O  Cosma,  I  saw  her,  saw  her  shadow 

first, 
And    then    herself    upon  the  threshold 

stone. 

It  was  the  day  of  Santo  Teobaldo. 
This  woman  was  sitting  there  upon  the 

stone, 
At  the  threshold  and  she  could  not  rise, 

because 
Her  feet  were  wounded.     Then  she  said : 

"Aligi, 
Thou  knowest  me?"    And  I  answered: 

"Thou  art  Mila." 
And  then  we  spoke  no  more,  because  no 

more 
Were  we  two  souls.     We  did  not  sin  that 

day, 
Nor  ever  after.     I  tell  thee  in  very  truth. 


[225  1 

Cosma: 

Shepherd  Aligi,  truly  thou  hast  lighted 
A  holy  lamp  in  the  darkness  of  thy  night, 
But  thou  hast  set  it  in  place  of  the  old 

mark, 
The  ancient  boundary  that  thy  fathers 

raised. 
Thou    hast   removed    that   consecrated 

stone. 
And  what  shall  come  to  thee  if  thy  lamp 

fail? 
The  counsel  of  man's  heart  is  like  deep 

water; 
And  yet  the  honest  man  may  understand. 

Aligi: 

I  pray  to  God  that  he  will  place  on  us 
The  seal  of  that  eternal  sacrament. 
Dost  thou  see  what  I  do?     With  soul  in 

hand 

I  carve  this  block  of  wood  into  the  form 
Of  the  Angel   who   appeared.     It  was 

begun 

On  last  Assumption  Day,  and  I  intend 
At  the  Rosario  to  finish  it. 
Then,  listen,  I  will  lead  my  flock  to  Rome, 


[226] 

And  carry  this  angel  with  me  on  a  mule, 

And  I  will  go  myself  to  the  Holy  Father, 

In  the  name  of  San  Pietro  Celestino 

Who  did  long  penance  on  the  moun- 
tain-side. 

I  am  going  to  the  Shepherd  of  the  shep- 
herds 

And  with  this  offering  ask  that  he  may 
grant 

That  the  bride  whom  I  did  never  touch 
may  go 

Back  to  her  mother,  loosed  from  every 
bond, 

And  that  I  may  take  unto  myself  this 
woman, 

The  stranger  who  can  weep  and  make 
no  sound. 

And  now  I  ask  of  thy  great  knowledge, 
tell, 

O  Cosma,  will  that  grace  be  granted  me? 

Cosma: 
Now  all  the  pathways  of  a  man  seem 

straight 

To  the  man;  but  it  is  God  who  weigheth 
hearts. 


[227] 

High  walls,  high  walls  are  built  around 

the  City, 

It  has  great  gates  of  iron,  and  all  about 
Great   tombs   are   builded   where   grass 

grows  and  grows. 
Thy  little  lamb  will  browse  not  on  that 

grass, 
Shepherd  Aligi.     Inquire  of  thy  mother. 

A  voice  outside,  shrieking: 

O  Cosma,  Cosma,  art  thou  there?  Come 
forth! 


SCENE  3 


Aligi: 

I  follow,  for  I  did  not  tell  thee  all.— 

Mila: 

Aligi,  true  thou  didst  not  tell  the  whole! 
Go  to  the  road  and  seek  the  crucifer 
And  pray  that  he  will  take  thy  message 
home. 


[228] 

The  saint  goes  away  across  the  pastures. 
Now  and  then  is  heard  the  singing  of 
the  pilgrims. 

Aligi,  Aligi,  all  we  did  not  tell! 

And  in  my  mouth  't  were  better  I  should 

have 

A  good  handful  of  dust,  yes,  or  a  stone 
To  shut  it  fast.     But  listen  just  to  this, 
Aligi,  I  have  never  done  thee  harm, 
And  harm  I  will  not  do  thee.     Now  my 

feet 
Are  healed  again,  and  well  I  know  the 

road. 
The   parting  hour  is   come   for  Jorio's 

daughter. 
The  parting  hour  is  come.     So  let  it  be. 

Aligi: 

I  know  not,  thou  knowest  not  the  hour 

that  comes. 
Fill  up  our  lamp  with  oil.     There  still  is 

oil 
In  the  skin.     And  wait  while  I  go  to  the 

pilgrims, 
For  now  I  know  right  well  what  I  will 

say. 


[229  ] 

He  turns  to  go.     The  woman,  overcome  by 
dismay,  calls  him  back. 

Mila: 

My  brother,  Aligi,  give  thy  hand  to  me. 

Aligi: 

Mila,  the  road  is  there,  not  far  away. 

Mila: 

Give  me  thy  hand  that  I  may  kiss  it, 

dear. 
It    is    the  one    spring   granted    to   my 

thirst. 

Aligi,  drawing  near: 

Mila,   this   is   the  hand   I  would  have 

burned. 
This  is  the  wicked  hand  that  did  thee 

wrong. 

Mila: 

I  have  forgotten.     I  am  but  that  creature 
Whom  thou  didst  find  seated  upon  the 

stone  — 
And    who    knows    by    what    pathways 

she  had  come! 


[230] 

Aligi: 

Upon  thy  face  the  tear  is  not  yet  dried, 
In   thy   lashes,    trembling,    still    a    tear 

doth  linger 
While  thou  dost  speak,  and  yet  it  does 

not  fall. 

Mila: 

Aligi,   listen!   there   has   fallen   a   great 

silence. 
They  are  not  singing  now.     With  the 

grass  and  snow 
We  are  alone,  brother,  we  are  alone. 

Aligi: 

Mila,  thou  art  now  as  on  that  first  even- 
ing 

There,  sitting  on  the  stone,  when  thou 
wouldest  smile 

With  thine  eyes  and  all  the  time  thy 
feet  were  bleeding. 

Mila: 

And  thou,  art  thou  not  he  who   knelt 

that  day, 
Who   laid   the   flowers   of   San   Giovan 

Battista 


[231  ] 

Upon  the  ground  ?  And  one  he  gathers  up 
And  carries  it  hid  in  his  shepherd's  scrip. 

Aligi: 

Mila,  there  is  a  cadence  in  thy  voice 
That  comforts  me,  and  yet  that  makes 

me  sad, 
As    in   October   when   one   leads   one's 

flocks, 
And  walks  and  walks  along  beside  the 

sea. 

Mila: 

To  walk  with  thee  on  the  mountains  and 

the  shore, 
I  would  to  God  that  this  might  be  my 

fate. 

Aligi: 

O  my  beloved!  gird  thee  for  the  journey. 
Long  is  the  way,  but  love,  but  love  is 
strong. 

Mila: 

Would  I  might  walk  with  thee  on  burn- 
ing fire, 
Aligi,  and  the  journey  never  end! 


[232] 

Aligi: 

Upon  the  mountains  thou  shalt  gather 

gentians, 
And  little  starfish  down  upon  the  sands. 

Mila: 

Aligi,  I  would  crawl  and  plant  my  knees 
In  thy  footsteps,  if  I  might  follow  thee. 

Aligi: 

Think  of  the  hours  of  rest  when  night 

shall  fall! 
For  pillow  thou  shalt  have  the  mint  and 

thyme. 

Mila: 

I  do  not  think,  no.     And  yet  let  me  stay 
This  one  night  more  and  live  here  where 

thou  breathest, 
And   listen  to   thy  sleep  yet  one  night 

more, 
And  let  me  watch  thee  even  as  thy  dogs 

watch. 

Aligi: 

Thou  knowest,  thou  knowest,  Mila,  the 
thing  that  comes! 


[233] 

With  thee  I  share  water,  and  bread,  and 

salt, 
And  thus  with  thee  I  will  share  bed  and 

board 
Even  to  death.   Mila,  give  me  thy  hands ! 

Mila: 

Ah,  how  one  trembles,  trembles,  thou 

art  cold. 
Aligi,    thou    art    white  —  Where    is    it 

gone  — 
The  blood  that  leaves  thy  face  to  the 

last  drop  ?    • 

Aligi: 

Oh,   Mila,    Mila,    I    hear    sound    like 

thunder  — 
And  all  the  mountain  falls  and  crashes 

down. 
Where    art    thou,    Mila?      Everything 

grows  dark! 

He  stretches  out  his  hand  to  her  as  one  who 
staggers.  They  kiss,  then  they  fall  upon 
their  knees  facing  each  other. 

Mila: 

Have  pity  upon  us,  O  Holy  Virgin! 


[234] 

Aligi: 

Have  pity  upon  us,  O  Jesus  Christ! 

There  is  a  great  silence. 

A  harsh  voice  is  heard  outside. 

Voice: 

Shepherd,  they  seek  you  at  the  fold, 
A  black  sheep  there  has  fallen  lame. 

Aligi  rises,  wavering,  and  goes  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  voice. 

The  keeper  seeks  for 'you,  and  bids  you 

run, 

And  says  there  is  a  woman  with  a  basket, 
They  don't  know  who  she  is,  asking  for 

you. 

Aligi  turns  his  head  to  look  back  at  the 
woman  who  is  still  kneeling;  and  his 
look  embraces  everything  in  the  place. 

Aligi,  in  a  low  voice: 

Into  the  lamp  there,  Mila,  pour  more  oil, 
Lest  it  go  out.     For  see,  it  scarcely  burns. 
Take  the  oil  from  the  skin,  there  still  is 
more, 


[235] 

And  wait  for  me,  I  will  be  back  by  night. 
And  do  not  be  afraid.     God  pardon  us; 
Because  we  tremble,  Mary  pardons  us. 
Fill  up  the  lamp,  and  pray  to  her  for 
grace. 

He  goes  off  across  the  pasture. 

Mila: 

0  Virgin,  holy  Virgin,  grant  this  grace, 
That  I  may  stay  with  face  upon  the 

ground, 
Grown  cold  here,  that  I  may  be  found 

here,  dead, 

By  those  who  come,  at  last,  to  bury  me. 
There  was  no  sin,  beneath  thy  holy  eyes, 
It  was  not  sin:  'twas  thou  didst  grant 

it  us. 
We  sinned  not  with  our  lips   (thou   art 

thyself 
Our  witness).     With  our  lips  we  never 

sinned. 

1  dare  to  die  beneath  thy  holy  eyes, 
Mary.     I  have  no  power  to  go  away, 
But   live   with    him,  —  that,   Mila   will 

not  do. 
I  was  not  wicked,  Mother  of  gentleness; 


[236] 

I  was  a  trampled  pool,  too  much,  too 

much, 
Have  I  been  shamed  under  the  eyes  of 

Heaven. 

And  who  shall  take  from  out  my  memory, 
Mother,  that  shame  of  mine,  save  it  be 

thou  ? 
Mother,   I  was   reborn  when  love  was 

born, 
And  thou  didst  will  it,  faithful  Virgin, 

thou. 
And  all  this  other  blood  that  fills  my 

veins, 

It  comes  from  far  away,  from  far  away, 
Comes  from  the  depths  of  earth,  from 

where  she  sleeps 

Who  suckled  me;  (O  let  her  see  me  now!) 
From  far  it  comes,  comes  from  my  inno- 
cence 
Of  far-off  childhood;  Mary,  thou  canst 

see. 
Not  with  our  lips  (thou  art  our  witness, 

Mother), 
We  sinned  not  with  our  lips,  —  not  with 

our  lips. 
And  if  I  tremble,  't  is  because  I  bring 


[237] 

The  trembling  in  my  bones  from  out  the 

past. 
Here  with  my  fingers  now  I  close  my 

eyes. 

With  the  first  and  middle  fingers  of  both 
hands  she  presses  down  her  eyelids; 
and  bends  her  face  down  to  the  ground. 

I  feel  death  near  me,  feel  death  very  near. 
The   trembling   grows.     My   heart   will 
not  be  still. 

She  rises  impetuously. 

Oh,  wretched  me!  what  I  was  told  to  do 
I  have  not  done.     Three  times  he  said 

to  me 
"Fill  up  the  lamp,"  and,  see,  'tis  going 

out. 

She  runs  to  the  oil-skin  that  hangs  from  a 
beam,  but  she  watches  the  little  trembling 
flame  and  strives  to  sustain  it  by  her 
murmured  prayer. 

Ave     Maria!     gratia    plena,     Dominus 
tecum  — 


[238] 

She  seizes  the  skin,  pressing  it  in  her  hands, 
seeks  for  the  flask  into  which  to  pour 
the  oil,  but  from  the  shrunken  skin  she 
can  squeeze  out  only  a  few  drops. 

"Tis     empty,     empty!      Three    drops, 

blessed  Virgin! 
They    shall    be    holy    for    my    extreme 

unction, 
Two  for  my  hands,  the  other  for  my 

mouth, 

And  all  the  three  upon  my  soul! 
But,  if  I  live  still  when  he  comes  again, 
What  shall  I  say  to  him?     What  shall 

I  say? 

Before  he  sees  me,  he  will  surely  see 
The  lamp  gone  out.     Oh,  Mother,  if  even 

love 

Might  not  avail  to  keep  the  lamp  alight, 
What  help  to  him  shall  be  this  love  of 

mine  ? 

She  presses  the  skin  yet  again,  searches 
about  in  a  hamper,  turning  the  jugs 
upside  down,  all  the  time  murmuring 
a  prayer. 


[239] 

O  make  it  burn,  Madre  intemerata! 
Still  for  a  little,  still,  while  we  might  say 
An  Ave  Maria!  while  a  prayer  might  last. 
Salve  Regina!     Madre  di  Misericordia! 

In  her  breathless  search  she  approaches  the 
threshold,  she  hears  a  step  and  perceives 
a  shadow.  She  cries  out: 

0  woman,  O  good  woman,  Christian  soul, 
Stay,    stay,    and   may   God  bless  thee! 

Woman,  stay! 

For  it  may  be  that  God  has  sent  thee 
here. 

What  hast  thou  in  thy  basket?  Hast 
thou  oil? 

Give  me  a  little  oil  for  charity. 

Then  enter  here  and  thou  may'st  have 
thy  choice 

Of  spoons  and  mortars,  spindles,  dis- 
taffs, all! 

1  must  have  oil  to  fill  Our  Lady's  lamp, 
Lest  it  go  out.     For,  if  the  lamp  go  out, 
I  shall  not  find  the  road  to  Paradise. 
Good    Christian,    dost    thou   hear    me, 

wilt  thou  give 
This  gift  to  me  for  charity,  for  love? 


[240] 

The  woman  appears  upon  the  threshold,  her 
face  covered  with  a  black  mantle;  she 
takes  the  wooden  measure  from  her  head 
and  without  a  word  sets  it  on  the  ground. 
She  removes  the  cloth,  seeks  within,  takes 
a  flask  full  of  oil  and  holds  it  out  to 
Mila  di  Codra. 

Oh,    blessed,    blessed    one!     God    will 

repay 
This  deed  of   thine   in  heaven  and  on 

the  earth! 
Thou  hast  it,  hast  it!     Thou  art  clothed 

in  black, 
Ah,  but  Our  Lady  surely  will  grant  to 

thee 
To    see    again    the    dear    face   of   thy 

dead, 
Because  of  this  that  thou  hast  done  for 

me. 

She  takes  the  flask  and  turns  anxiously  to 
run  to  the  dying  lamp. 

Oh,  I  am  lost!     I  am  lost!     It  is  gone 
out! 


[24I] 

The  flask  slips  from  her  hands  and  is 
shattered  on  the  earth.  She  stands  motion- 
less for  some  minutes,  spell-bound  by  the 
horror  of  the  omen.  The  veiled  woman  bends 
down  with  a  single  silent  motion  to  the  spilled 
oil,  touches  it  with  the  fingers  of  her  right 
hand  and  crosses  herself. 

SCENE  4 

Mila  looks  at  the  woman  with  quiet  sadness, 
and  her  desperate  resignation  makes 
her  voice  dull  and  slow. 

Mila: 

Pardon  me,  wanderer  of  Christ. 

Thy  charity  avails  me  not. 

The  oil  is  spilled,  the  flask  is  shattered. 

An  evil  fate  is  fallen  on  me. 

Tell   me  what  thou  wilt   have.     These 

things 

The  shepherd  carved  with  his  own  hand. 
Distaff  and  spindle,  all  are  new. 
Mortar  and  pestle  would'st  thou  like? 
Tell  me,  for  nothing  can  I  tell. 
Now  am  I  in  the  depths  of  hell. 


[242] 

The  Veiled  One,  with  trembling  voice: 

Daughter  of  Jorio,  I  came  for  thee, 
It  was  for  thee  I  brought  these  gifts, 
That  I  might  ask  one  grace  of  thee. 

Mila: 

Ah,  voice  of  heaven,  heard  in  my  soul ! 
Heard  always  in  my  heart  of  hearts! 

The  Veiled  One: 
For  thee  I  came  from  Acquanova. 

Mila: 

Ornella!  Ornella,  it  is  thou! 

Ornella  uncovers  her  face. 

Ornella: 

I  am  the  sister  of  Aligi, 

I  am  the  daughter  of  Lazaro. 

Mila: 

In  humbleness  I  kiss  the  feet 

That  brought  thee  to  me  so  I  might 

In  this  hour  see  thy  face  again, 

The  hour  of  mortal  agony. 

'Twas  thou  who  showed  me  pity,  first, 

Ornella,  and,  now,  thou  art  the  last. 


[243] 

Ornella: 

If  I  was  first  to  pity  thee, 

For  that  I  have  done  great  penance  since, 

Mila  di  Codra.     I  speak  truth, 

My  penance  is  not  ended  yet. 

Mila: 

Thy   sweet  voice   trembles   while   thou 

speak'st. 

The  knife  that  trembles  in  the  wound 
Makes  far  more  pain,  —  so  much  more 

pain! 
Ah,  little  girl,  thou  dost  not  know. 

Ornella: 

Oh,  did'st  thou  know  the  grief  I  have! 
Know  all  the  ill  thou  hast  returned 
For  the  little  good  I  did  to  thee! 
The  house  I  left  is  desolate. 
There  is  only  dying  there  and  tears. 

Mila: 

Why  art  thou  wearing  only  black? 
Oh,  who  is  dead  ?     Thou  dost  not  speak, 
Perhaps,  perhaps,  —  it  is  the  bride? 

Ornella: 

Ah,  thou  would'st  gladly  have  her  dead! 


[244] 

Mila: 

God  sees  my  heart.     No,  I  have  feared, 
I  have  had  terrors  here  within. 
But  tell  me,  who  then?     Answer  me, 
For  God's  sake,  and  for  sake  of  thine 
own  soul! 

Ornella: 

No  one  of  us  has  died  as  yet, 
But  all  of  us  wear  clothes  of  black 
For  that  dear  one  who  went  away 
And  brought  down  ruin  on  his  head. 
But,  ah!  if  thou  could'st  look  on  her, 
If  thou  could'st  see  my  mother  now, 
How  would'st  thou  tremble!     Upon  us 
Has  come  black  summer,  there  has  come 
A  bitter,  poisoned  autumn;   sorrier 
The  saddest  leap-year  could  not  be. 
Oh,  when  I  shut  the  door,  to  save 
Thy  life,  I  brought  black  ruin  down 
On  my  own  head.    Thou  did'st  not  seem 
Unpitying  then,  thou  who  did'st  pray 
To  us  for  pity! 

And  thou  did'st  ask  of  me  my  name, 
That  thou  might'st  speak  of  it  in  praise! 
And  on  my  name  they  call  down  shame, 


[245] 

Morning  and  evening  in  my  house; 
And  I  am  cursed  and  driven  out, 
And  stay  apart,  for  every  one 
Shrieks:   "Look  at  her!  she  is  the  one 
Who  slipped  the  bolt  in  the  great  door, 
So  that  vile  creature  might  remain 
Huddled  there  in  the  chimney,  safe." 
And  I  can  bear  no  more,  and  say 
"  'T   were    better    to    draw    out    your 

knives 

And  tear  me  into  bits."     And  this, 
Mila  di  Codra,  is  thy  gratitude. 

Mila: 

'T  is  right,  oh,  it  is  right  that  thou 
Should'st  strike  me,  it  is  right  that  thou 
Should'st  pour  this  bitterness  on  me, 
Follow  my  sin  with  punishment 
Like  this  into  the  world  below. 
Perhaps  for  me  the  stone  and  hedge, 
The  straw  and  the  insensate  wool 
Will  speak;  and  the  mute  Angel,  living 
To    thy    brother's    hand    there    in    the 

block, 

And  the  Virgin,  with  her  light  gone  out, 
Will  speak;   and  I,  I  will  not  speak. 


[246] 

Ornella: 

O  Mila,  now  it  seems  to  me  as  if 

Thy  soul  were  but  a  garment  thou  dost 

wear, 
And  I  could  touch  it,  reaching  out  to 

thee 

My  hand  of  faith. 
How  is  it  thou  dost  cast 
Such  evil  on  God's  people? 

Did'st  thou  see 
Our  poor  Vienda  thou  would'st  fall  a- 

trembling. 
Her   parched    skin    scarcely   covers  her 

dry  bones, 
And  her  poor  gums  look  whiter  in  her 

mouth 
Than  her  white  teeth.     And  when  the 

first  rain  fell 

On  Saturday,  our  mother  said  to  us, 
Weeping:  "See,  daughters,  see,  now  she 

will  go; 
When   the   cold   comes   she   will   droop 

down  and  die." 
Ah,  but  my  father  does  not  weep!     His 

bitterness 
He  chews  upon,  and  does  not  even  move. 


[247  ] 

That  dreadful  wound  of  his  is  grown 
infected, 

And  erysipelas  laid  hold  on  him. 

(May  San  Cesidio  and  San  Rocco  help 
us!) 

And  with  the  inflammation  in  his  mouth, 

He  shrieks  and  cries  aloud  by  day  and 
night. 

His  head  is  as  if  burned  by  a  black  fire. 

And  all  the  time  he  speaks  such  blas- 
phemies 

Enough  to  set  the  house  a-quivering. 

And  we  are  terrified.  How  thy  teeth 
chatter! 

Hast  thou  the  fever?  What  has  come 
upon  thee? 

Mila: 

So,  always,  at  the  sinking  of  the  sun 
The  chill  takes  hold  upon  me,  because  I 
Have  not  been  used  to  night  among  the 

mountains. 
This  is  the  hour  when  fires  are  lighted 

up. 
But  speak  on,  speak  to  me  now  without 

pity. 


[248] 

Ornella: 

From  some  hint,  yesterday,  I  knew 
That  he  was  brooding  in  his  thought 
To    mount    here    to    the    fold.      Last 

evening 

I  did  not  see  that  he  came  home, 
And  all  my  blood  stopped  in  my  veins. 
And  then  I  made  this  hamper  ready, 
And  my  three  sisters  aided  me, 
For  we  are  three  born  of  one  mother, 
And  all  the  three  are  marked  for  grief. 
To-night  I  came  from  Acquanova, 
I  passed  the  ford  across  the  river 
And  to  the  mountain  took  my  way 
Oh,  woman!     Christian  woman, 
I  cannot  bear  to  see  thy  pain! 
Tell  me,  what  can  I  do  for  thee? 
Now  thou  art  trembling  even  more 
Than  when  thou  wert  beside  the  hearth 
And  all  the  reapers  clamored. 

Mila: 

And  did'st  thou  meet  him?  Art  thou  sure 
That   he  has   come?    and  is  he  at  the 

fold? 
Art  thou  sure?  art  thou  sure,  Ornella? 


[249] 

Ornella: 

I  have  not  seen  him  since,  nor  know 
Surely   that   he   came   up    here   to   the 

mountain. 

At  Gionco  he  had  business,  as  I  know; 
Perhaps  he  will  not  come.  Don't  be  afraid, 
But,  oh,  do  listen  to  me.     For  the  sake 
Of  thine  own  soul's  salvation,  Mila,Mila, 
Be  penitent  and  take  away  from  us 
This  evil  spell.     O  give  us  back  Aligi, 
And  may  God  pity  thee,and  go  with  thee! 

Mila: 

I  am  content,  Aligi's  sister, 

Always  content  to  do  thy  bidding. 

'T  is  just  that  thou  should'st  strike  me 

down, 

Me,  woman  of  ill-life,  magician's 
Daughter,  me,  shameless  sorceress! 
Who  but  for  charity  did  beg 
The  Christian  traveller  to  give 
A  little  oil,  only  a  drop  of  oil 
To  keep  the  holy  lamp  alight. 
Perhaps  behind  me  yet  again 
The  Angel  weeps.     Perhaps  the  stones 
Will  speak  for  me  again.     But  I, 


[250] 

I  will  not  speak.     By  the  name  only 

Of  sister  I  say  this  to  thee: 

(And  if  I  do  not  speak  the  truth 

May  my  dear  mother  from  her  tomb 

Arise  and  seize  me  by  the  hair 

And  strike  me  down  into  black  earth 

speaking  out 

Against  her  lying  daughter.)     Only  this 
I  say  to  thee:     No  sin  have  I 
Sinned  ever  with  thy  brother.     Nay, 
I  swear  to  thee  that  I  am  innocent. 

Ornella: 

Almighty  God!     Thou  hast  wrought  a 
miracle! 

Mila: 

This  is  the  love  of  Mila.     Child, 
This  is  my  love. 

I  say  no  more. 
I  am  content  to  do  thy  will, 
And  Jorio's  daughter  knows  her  way; 
Her  spirit  ere  this  was  departing, 
Ere  thou  did'st  come  to  call  it,  innocent! 
And  do  not  fear  more,  sister  of  Aligi, 
Thou  hast  no  need  to  fear. 


[251] 

SCENE  6 

M ila  di  Codra  lets  fall  the  sack  torn  from  the 
old  woman,  and  looks  at  the  man  who 
has  come,  standing  tall  against  the  light. 
But  recognizing  him  she  gives  a  cry  and 
takes  refuge  in  the  shadow  at  the  back. 
Then  Lazaro  di  Roio  enters,  in  silence, 
carrying  a  cord  twisted  about  his  arm, 
like  a  herdsman  who  has  set  his  bull  free. 
One  can  hear  on  the  stone  the  hurrying 
staff  of  Anna  Onna,  who  escapes. 

Lazaro  di  Roio: 

Now,  woman,  do  not  be  afraid, 
Though  Lazaro  di  Roio  comes 
He  brings  no  sickle  in  his  hand. 
He  seeks  not  a  revenge  on  thee. 
More  than  one  drop  of  blood  was  drawn 
On  the  field  of  Mispa,  and  thou  knowest 
The  cause  of  that  fight  and  its  end. 
That  thou  should'st  pay  him  drop  for  drop 
He  does  not  wish,  spite  of  the  scar 
That  always  burns  and  pains  his  head. 

He  laughs  a  short,  rough  laugh. 

When  he  lies  on  his  bed  he  hears 
The  women  weeping  and  lamenting 


[252] 

Not  for  him,  no,  but  for  the  shepherd 

Enchanted  by  a  sorceress, 

Upon  the  mountain  far  away. 

My  woman,  surely,  thou  choosest  ill, 

And  now  I  have  not  much  to  say, 

But  thou  'It  go  with  me,  and  no  need, 

Daughter  of  Jorio,  of  more  words. 

Down  there  I  Ve  ass  and  pack-saddle, 

A  cord  of  hemp  I  also  have, 

And  one  of  rushes.     God  be  praised! 

Mila  remains  motionless,  with  her  back  to 
the  rocky  without  answering. 

Mila  di  Codra,  dost  thou  hear? 

Or  art  thou  turning  deaf  and  dumb? 

Now  I  speak  to  thee  peaceably; 

I  know  well  how  it  was  that  time 

With  the  reapers  of  Norca,  there  below. 

If  now  thou  thinkest  by  the  same  defence 

To  stand  against  me,  thou  dost  trick 

thyself. 

There  is  no  hearthstone  here;  there  are 
No  kinsfolk;  nor  does  San  Giovanni 
Ring  the  great  bell  to  keep  thee  safe. 
I  move  three  steps  and  have  thee  fast. 
Besides,  I  Ve  two  strong  fellows  here. 


[253] 

Yet,  none  the  less,  I  speak  in  peace, 
'T  is  better  thou  should'st  yield  to  this, 
And  not  compel  me  to  use  force. 

Mila: 

What  would'st  thou   with  me?     Thou 

dost  come, 

Now,  when  death  is  already  here. 
Death  moved  aside  to  let  thee  in, 
But  she  remains  there  none  the  less. 
Look  in  that  sack.     In  it  there  are 
Roots  that  would  kill  a  dozen  wolves. 
Though  thou,  thyself,  bind  up  my  jaw, 
I  shall  be  chewing  poison  sweet 
Just  as  a  heifer  chews  its  cud. 
Take  me  then,  me,  when  I  am  cold, 
Put  me  across  the  saddle,  bound 
Fast  with  thy  cords  and  take  me  down 
With  the  ass,  and  bring  me  to  the  judge 
And  say:  "Here  is  the  shameless  one, 
The  Sorceress!"     And  burn  my  corpse, 
And  let  thy  women  come  to  look, 
Rejoicing  over  me.     Perhaps 
One  will  reach  out  and  put  her  hand 
In  the  flame,  and  without  burning  it, 
To  draw  my  heart  forth  from  the  fire. 


[254] 

Lazaro,  at  the  first  suggestion,  gathers  up 
the  sack  of  simples  and  scrutinizes  it. 
He  throws  it  behind  him  with  fear  and 
disgust. 

Lazaro: 

Ah,  thou  dost  try  to  spread  a  snare  for 

me. 
Thou  seekest  to  entrap  me,  who  knows 

how? 

I  hear  deceit  sound  in  thy  voice. 
But  I  will  take  thee  in  my  noose. 

He  makes  a  noose  with  his  cord. 

Lazaro  will  have  thee  by  God's  grace, 
Will  have  thee  neither  cold  nor  dead. 
Mila  di  Codra,  he  will  tread 
The  vintage  with  thee  this  October. 
His  wine  vats  are  already  waiting, 
And  he  will  tread  the  grapes  with  thee 
And  wallow  to  his  neck  in  must. 

He  goes  toward  the  woman,  smiling  slyly. 
Mila  crouches  ready  to  fly.  The  man 
follows  her.  She  leaps  here  and  there 
but  cannot  escape. 


[255] 

Mila : 

Don't  touch  me!  Let  me  go!  for  shame! 
Thy  son  is  there,  behind  thee,  there! 

SCENE  7 

Aligi  appears  on  the  threshold.  Seeing  his 
father  he  loses  every  trace  of  color. 
Lazaro  stops  and  turns  on  him.  Father 
and  son  look  at  each  other  fixedly. 

Lazaro: 

Who  is  it?     Who  is  it?     Aligi? 

Aligi: 

Father,  however  did  you  come? 

Lazaro: 

Is  thy  blood  sucked?  that  thou  art  grown 
So  white?     It  runs  as  if  strained  thin 
As  whey  when  it  runs  through  the  bag, 
Shepherd,  thou  art  so  terrified. 

Aligi: 

What,  Father,  is  thy  will  to  do? 

Lazaro: 

My  will  to  do?     To  ask 
Of  me  is  not  permitted  thee. 


[256] 

But  I  will  tell  thee  that  I  want 
To  take  the  fat  sheep  in  my  noose 
And  take  her  with  me  where  I  please. 
Then  I  will  settle  with  the  shepherd. 

Aligi: 

Father,  father,  thou  shalt  not  do  this. 

Lazaro: 

Dost  dare  to  lift  thy  face  against  me? 
Take  care  I  do  not  make  thee  blush. 
Go,  go  back  to  the  hut  and  stay 
There  with  thy  flock  inside  the  fold 
Until  I  come  and  look  for  thee. 
Now  for  thy  very  life  obey! 

Aligi: 

0  Father,  may  the  Lord  forbid 

1  should  obey  thee  in  this  thing. 
Thou  hast  the  power  to  judge  thy  son, 
But  leave  this  woman  to  herself; 
Leave  her,  leave  her  to  weep  alone. 
Do  not  offend  her.     It  is  sin. 

Lazaro: 

Now  God  has  made  thee  go  clean  mad! 
Is  it  a  saint  of  whom  thou  speakest? 
Dost  thou  not  see  (thine  eyes  were  shut), 


[257  ] 

Can'st  thou  not  see  she  has  beneath 
Her  eyelids  and  about  her  neck 
All  of  the  seven  deadly  sins  ? 
I  tell  the  truth  that  if  thy  sheep 
Should  see  her  they  would  butt  at  her. 
Dost  thou  dare  bid  me  not  offend  her! 


Aligi: 

If  before  God  it  were  not  sin, 
If  before  man  it  were  not  crime, 
My  father,  I  would  say  to  thee 
That  thou  hast  lied  now  in  thy  throat. 

He  takes  a  jew  steps  slantwise  and  places 
himself  between  his  father  and  the 
woman,  covering  her  with  his  body. 

Lazaro: 

What  dost  thou  say?     May  thy  tongue 

wither! 

Get  down  upon  thy  knees  and  beg 
Pardon,  and  fall  upon  the  ground. 
And  do  not  dare  to  stand  again 
Before  me,  but  crawl  forth, 
Away,  and  stay  there  with  the  dogs. 


Aligi: 

My  father,  let  God  be  our  judge; 
But  this  poor  creature  to  thy  rage 
I  will  not  leave,  I  cannot 
While  I  live.     Let  God  be  judge. 

Lazaro: 

'T  is  I  who  am  thy  judge.     Now  who 
Am  I  to  thee,  and  to  thy  blood? 

Aligi: 

Thou  art  my  father,  dear  to  me. 

Lazaro: 

I  am  thy  father,  and  can  do 
Exactly  what  I  please  with  thee. 
Thou  art  mine  as  much  as  is  the  ox 
In  my  stall;  thou  art  like  my  spade 
And  like  my  hoe.     And  if  I  choose 
To  drive  the  harrow  over  thee 
And  break  thy  back,  it  is  well  done. 
And  if  I  need  for  my  knife  here 
A  handle  and  should  make  me  one 
Out  of  thy  thigh,  that  is  well  done; 
Because  I  'm  father  and  thou  son, 
Dost  understand?     For  over  thee 
I  Ve  all  power,  to  the  end  of  time. 


[259] 

And  just  as  I  was  to  my  father 

Thou  art  to  me  though  dead  and  buried ! 

Dost  understand?     And  if  this  goes 

Out  of  thy  head,  I  '11  bring  it  back 

To  mind.     Down   on    thy    knees,    and 

kiss 

The  earth  and  creep  out  on  all  fours; 
Go,  and  don't  turn  to  look  behind. 

Aligi: 

Drive  over  me  with  plough  and  harrow, 
Father,  but  do  not  touch  the  woman. 

Lazaro  comes  near,  unable  to  contain  his 
fury;  and,  lifting  the  cord,  strikes  him 
on  the  shoulder. 

Lazaro: 

Down,  get  thee  down  to  the  ground,  dog, 
down! 

Aligi  falls  on  his  knees. 

Aligi: 

My  father,  see  me  ;  here  I  kneel 
Before  thee,  kneel,  and  kiss  the  earth. 
And  in  the  name  of  the  living  God 
And  true,  by  my  first  cry,  then  when 


[260] 

I  was  born  to  thee  and  thou  didst  take 
Me  in  your  hands  and  lifted  me, 
Ere  I  was  wrapped  in  swaddling  bands, 
Up  toward  the  Holy  Face  of  Christ, 
I  pray  thee,  pray  thee,  father  mine; 
Do  not  so  trample  under  foot 
The  heart,  the  heart  of  thy  sad  son, 
Nor  give  him  shame  like  this.     I  pray 
Do  not  put  out  his  light  of  life, 
Nor  throw  him  to  the  host  of  fiends, 
To  the  enemy  that  circles  round. 
I  pray  thee  by  that  Angel  mute 
That  sees  and  hears  there  in  the  block! 

Lazaro: 

Go  now,  go  now,  begone,  begone, 
And  afterward  I  '11  judge  thy  case. 
Begone,  I  say,  begone,  begone  from  here. 

He  strikes  him  cruelly  with  the  cord.     Aligi 
raises  himself  all  trembling. 

Aligi: 

Now  may  the  Lord  be  judge,  and  judge 
Between  us  two,  and  see,  and  do 
Me  right;  but  I,  against  thee  here, 
Father,  I  will  not  lift  my  hand. 


[26l] 

Lazaro: 
Accursed!     I  will  strangle  thee! 

He  throws  the  noose  to  catch  Aligi  by  the 
head,  but  Aligi  avoids  the  catch,  seizes 
the  cord  and  pulls  his  father  with  a 
sudden  jerk. 

Aligi: 

Lord  Christ,  do  thou  give  aid  to  me! 
That  I  lay  not  my  hands  on  him, 
That  I  touch  not  my  father,  no! 

Furious,  Lazaro  runs  to  the  threshold  calling. 

Lazaro: 

Ho,  Jenne !    Ho  you,  Femo !     Come ! 
Come,  come  and  see  this  fellow  here, 
How  he  acts.   (May  a  serpent  sting  him !) 
Bring  here  the  cord.     He  is  possessed 
For  certain.     See,  he  threatens  me  his 

father! 

He  has  rebelled  against  me,  he! 
He  was  accursed  in  the  womb, 
And  all  his  days,  accursed  forever. 
The  devil  has  entered  into  him. 
Look  at  him  there.     There  is  no  blood 
In  his  face.     Ho,  Jenne,  take  him,  thou. 


[262] 

Femo,    thou   hast   the   cord.     So,   bind 

him. 

Now  bind  him  fast,  and  throw  him  out. 
******* 

Aligi: 

Brothers  in  God,  don't  treat  me  so! 
Oh,  Jenne,  do  not  lose  thy  soul. 
Jenne,  I  know  thee.     I  remember 
How  when  I  was  a  little  child 
I  used  to  go  and  gather  olives 
In  thy  field,  Jenne  dell'  Eta. 
Yes,  I  remember.     Do  not,  Jenne, 
Do  not  abuse  and  shame  me  so! 

The  peasants  throw  him  down  and  try  to 
bind  him,  dragging  him  about  while  he 
becomes  furious. 

Dogs!     May  you  die  of  pestilence! 

No,  no,  no,  Mila,  Mila,  run, 

Give  me  that  iron  there.     Mila  !   Mila! 

His  voice  is  heard  hoarse  and  desperate, 
while  Lazaro  prevents  Mila's  escape. 

Mila: 

Aligi,  Aligi,  God  will  help! 

God  will  avenge!     Do  not  despair. 

I  have  no  power,  and  thou  hast  none. 


[263] 

But  while  my  heart  is  left  to  me, 

Aligi,  I  am  thine,  am  thine! 

Have  faith!    have  faith!      For  aid  will 

come. 
Take  heart,  Aligi.     May  God  help  thee! 

SCENE  8 

Mila  remains  with  eyes  fixed,  and  ear 
strained  to  hear  the  voices.  In  the  brief  truce, 
Lazaro  examines  the  cave,  slyly.  Far  off  is 
heard  the  song  of  another  company  of  pilgrims 
passing  through  the  valley. 

Lazaro: 

So,  woman,  thou  hast  seen  how  I 
Am  master  here.  I  give  the  law. 
And  now  thou  art  alone  with  me. 
Evening  begins,  and  here,  inside, 
'T  is  almost  dark  as  night.  Don't  fear, 
Don't  be  afraid,  Mila  di  Codra. 

*         *         #         #         *         *         * 
Here  in  the  shepherd's  hut  thou  could'st 
Not  have  fat  pasture.     Down  below 
Upon  the  plain  thou  canst  have  better, 
For  Lazaro  di  Roio,  he 


[264] 

Is  well  to  do,  Mila,  is  rich! 

What  art  thou  looking  at,  expecting? 

Mila: 

I  look  for  nothing.     No  one  comes. 

She  watches  in  the  hope  of  seeing  Ornella 
appear  to  save  her.  She  dissimulates 
and  temporizes,  seeking  to  deceive  the 
man. 

Lazaro: 

Thou  art  alone  with  me.     Don't  fear. 
Don't  fear.     Art  thou  convinced,  Mila? 

Mila: 

Lazaro  di  Roio,  I  am  thinking. 

I  think  what  thou  didst  promise  me.  — 

I  think.     But  how  can  I  be  sure? 

Lazaro: 

Don't  shrink  away.   I  will  keep  my  word. 

All  that  I  promise  I  will  do, 

If  God  will  prosper  me.  —  Come  here. 

Mila: 

And  Candia  della  Leonessa? 
******* 

And  thy  three  daughters  in  the  house? 


[265] 

Lazaro: 

Come   here.     Don't   doubt   me.     Here, 

look  here: 

I  Ve  twenty  ducats  sewed  up  safe. 
Sewed  in  this    skin.      Dost  thou   want 

them? 
There,  hark!     dost  thou  not  hear  them 

ring? 
Twenty  good  ducats  of  pure  silver. 

Mila: 

I  want  to  see  them  first.     I  want 
To  count  them,  Lazaro  di  Roio. 
I  '11  take  scissors  and  rip  them  out. 

Lazaro: 

What  dost  thou  stare  at?  Witch,  for  cer- 
tain 

Thou  dost  plan  some  trick  to  cheat  me 
here. 

Thou  think'st  to  keep  me  dallying  so. 

He  tries  to  take  her.  The  woman  flees  into 
the  shadow,  and  takes  refuge  near  the 
walnut  block. 

Mila: 

No!   No!    Let  me  alone!    No!    No! 


[266] 

Don't  touch  me!     See!  she  comes!  she 

comes! 
Thy  daughter  comes!     Ornella  comes. 

She  grasps  the  Angel,  despairingly,  to  resist 
the  marts  violence. 

No!   No!   Ornella!   Ornella,  help! 

Suddenly,  at  the  mouth  of  the  cave,  appears 
Aligi,  unbound.  He  sees  the  confusion 
back  in  the  shadow.  He  throws  himself 
upon  his  father.  He  sees  where  the 
light  strikes  the  walnut  block,  the  hatchet 
still  fixed.  He  brandishes  it,  blind  with 
horror. 

Aligi  : 

Let  her  go,  quick,  upon  thy  life! 

He  strikes  his  father  dead.  Ornella  arrives; 
she  sees  the  body  stretched  at  the  AngeVs 
feet.  She  gives  a  great  cry. 

Ornella : 

I  let  him  go!     I  let  him  go! 


[267] 


ACT  III 

A  great  threshing  floor.  At  the  back  an 
old  oak,  behind  it  the  open  country  bounded 
by  mountains,  the  river  between.  At  the 
left,  the  house  of  Lazaro.  The  door  stands 
wide;  under  the  porch  are  harvest  tools;  at  the 
right,  the  hay-loft  and  straw-rick. 

SCENE  i 

The  corpse  of  Lazaro  lies  on  the  bare 
floor  within  the  house,  his  head  pillowed  upon 
a  faggot  of  vine  branches,  as  is  the  custom. 
The  mourners  kneel  around.  Under  the 
porch  are  the  kinsfolk  with  Splendore  and 
Favetta.  Vienda  is  seated  upon  a  stone  as 
if  half  dead,  comforted  by  her  mother  and 
godmother.  Ornella  stands  alone  under  the 
tree,  watching  the  path. 

The  chorus  of  mourners  laments  the  death 
of  Lazaro.  Ornella,  watching,  sees  far  off 
a  cloud  of  dust  and  a  black  standard.  She 
calls  to  her  sisters  to  prepare  their  mother  for 


[268] 

what  is  coming.  Femo,  one  of  the  peasant 
witnesses,  rushing  in  breathless,  brings  tidings 
of  Aligi,  condemned  as  a  parricide,  and  now 
being  led  to  his  mother  that  he  may  ask  her 
pardon  before  he  dies,  and  that  she  may  give 
him,  as  is  her  right,  the  cup  of  comfort. 
Afterward,  his  hand  is  to  be  cut  off,  and  he 
is  to  be  tied  in  a  sack  with  a  mastiff  and 
thrown  into  the  river.  The  muffled  roll  of 
the  funeral  drum  is  heard.  Femo  tells  how 
Aligi  confessed  his  guilt,  looking  humble 
and  innocent,  and  how  the  carved  angel  has  a 
spot  of  blood  upon  it.  The  women  crowd 
around  asking  what  has  become  of  Mila  and 
cursing  her.  As  the  chorus  of  mourners 
breaks  forth  again,  the  mother  rises  from  the 
chimney  corner  where  she  has  been  crouching, 
and  approaches  the  door. 

SCENE  2 

The  mother  wanders  in  her  mind,  confus- 
ing her  sorrows  with  those  of  the  Blessed 
Virgin.  The  frightened  women  kneel  in 
prayer.  The  daughters  try  to  bring  their 
mother  back.  Ornella  cries:  "Mother,  Aligi 


[269] 

is  coming,  Aligi  is  coming  now  to  ask  thy 
forgiveness  and  to  drink  the  cup  of  comfort 
from  thy  hands.  Rise,  and  be  strong.  He  is 
not  damned.  By  repentance  and  the  sacred 
blood  he  is  saved." 

A  crowd  of  people,  all  the  countryside, 
approaches  in  silence,  lona  di  Midia  bear- 
ing the  black  standard.  In  the  midst  is 
Aligi,  bound,  bare-foot,  a  black  veil  over  his 
head.  They  bring  with  them  the  angel,  the 
leathern  sack,  and  the  dog.  The  kinswomen, 
mourning,  tell  how  to  mix  the  wine  with  herbs 
to  make  the  cup  more  stupefying.  The  voice 
of  lona  breaks  the  silence:  "0  widow  of 
Lazaro,  0  kinsfolk  of  this  stricken  household, 
up,  up,  here  comes  the  penitent" 

SCENE  3 

lona  appears  with  the  black  standard; 
behind  him  is  Aligi,  bound.  Following  them 
is  a  man  carrying  the  carved  shepherd's 
crook,  another  with  the  hatchet,  and  others 
bearing  the  angel  figure,  wrapped  in  a  cloth. 
They  set  it  down.  The  crowd  presses 
close. 


[270] 

The  chorus  of  mourners  laments  the 
terrible  ^death  of  Aligi,  now  so  near,  the 
cut-off  hand,  the  cord,  the  sack.  lona  an- 
nounces the  condemnation  of  Aligi,  and  tells 
Candia  that  she  may  lift  the  veil  and  hold 
the  cup  to  the  lips  of  her  son,  because  his 
death  will  be  so  bitter.  Aligi  falls  at  her 
feet:  he  may  no  longer  call  her  mother,  he 
will  not  drink  her  cup,  for  his  death  is  no 
more  painful  than  he  deserves.  The  crowd 
looks  pityingly  upon  the  mother,  grown  white- 
haired  in  two  nights.  Aligi  addresses  his 
sisters:  he  must  not  speak  their  names  nor 
call  them  sisters  any  more.  They  ought  to 
drive  him  away  like  a  dog.  He  has  two 
things  to  leave  them,  the  crook  on  which  he 
had  carved  three  little  maidens  like  them, 
that  he  might  have  their  company  out  in  the 
pastures,  and  the  mute  angel  he  had  been 
carving  from  his  heart,  now  with  the  awful 
spot  upon  it.  "  The  spot  will  disappear  some 
day  and  the  mute  angel  will  speak,  and  you 
will  see  and  hear."  The  crowd  looks  pity- 
ingly on  the  sisters  who  have  no  more  tears 
to  shed. 

Aligi    speaks    to    Vienda,    "virgin    and 


[271  ] 

widow,  whose  next  marriage  shall  be  in 
Paradise  and  Christ  shall  be  the  bridegroom" 
The  crowd  echoes  his  words.  lona  hurries 
him,  for  it  grows  late,  and  "he  must  not  hear 
the  Ave  Maria  nor  see  the  evening  star" 
The  mother,  approaching,  lifts  the  veil  from 
Aligns  face,  presses  his  head  against  her 
breast  and  holds  the  cup  to  his  lips.  A  cry 
is  heard  from  the  crowd,  interrupting  the 
Miserere:  "Mila  di  Codra,  the  daughter  of 
Jorio,  the  witch  of  hell,  is  coming.  Let  her 
come  on;  make  place. " 

LAST  SCENE 

Mila  di  Codra  rushes  in,  parting  the 
crowd.  She  calls  upon  them  all  to  listen. 
Aligi  is  innocent,  she  says,  it  is  she  who 
killed  Lazaro.  Aligi  does  not  know  this  for 
she  has  bewitched  him.  She  has  brought 
many  evils  upon  them  all,  as  the  woman 
knows  who  accused  her  on  the  eve  of  San 
Giovanni.  She  made  Aligi  carve  a  bad 
angel,  that  one  there,  covered  with  the  cloth. 
The  Saint  of  the  Mountains  has  turned  her 
heart,  and  has  sent  her  to  confess  and  to  save 


[272] 

the  innocent.  Aligi  at  first  denies  all  this, 
tells  her  that  she  is  lying,  and  calls  on  Ornella 
to  witness.  "Do  not  listen  to  her.  She  is 
misleading  you.  When  all  of  you  cried  out 
against  her  on  the  eve  of  San  Giovanni  I  saw 
the  mute  angel  behind  her.  With  these 
mortal  eyes  of  mine  which  must  not  see  again 
the  vesper  star,  I  saw  it  look  at  me  and  weep. 
It  was  a  miracle,  lona,  to  show  that  she  is 
of  God." 

Mila  replies:  "0  poor  shepherd  Aligi,  0 
youth  so  credulous  and  so  deceived,  the  angel 
was  apostate.  'Twas  a  wicked,  a  false 
angel."  All  sign  themselves  except  Aligi 
in  his  bonds  and  Ornella  who  stands  apart, 
her  eyes  fixed  upon  the  voluntary  victim. 
Mila  tells  how,  when  Aligi  came  to  the  fold, 
she  made  him  carve  the  bad  angel,  that  one 
there,  covered  with  the  cloth,  and  how,  when 
Lazaro  seized  her,  that  night  in  the  dark  hut, 
great  power  came  upon  her;  she  drew  the 
hatchet  from  the  block,  brandished  it  and 
killed  him.  The  kinsfolk  cry  out  against 
her:  "  Let  her  alone,  Ornella.  Aligi  is 
innocent.  Take  off  his  bonds,  lona.  Let 
him  go  free"  The  crowd  takes  up  the  cry 


[273] 

and  adds:  "  To  the  flames,  to  the  flames  with 
the  witch,  the  daughter  of  Jorio."  Mila 
replies:  "  Yes,  yes,  righteous  people,  people 
of  God,  take  vengeance  on  me.  And  add  to 
the  pyre  that  apostate  angel.  Let  it  make 
the  flame  to  burn  me  and  be  consumed  with 


me:9 


Aligi,  more  and  more  overpowered  by  the 
potion,  cries  out  desperately:  if  it  is  he  who 
heard,  who  believed,  who  hoped,  who  adored 
the  wicked  angel,  let  them  cut  off  both  his 
hands,  and  sew  him  into  the  sack  and  cast 
him  into  the  river,  that  he  may  sleep  seven 
hundred  years  and  never  remember  how  the 
light  of  God  illumined  those  eyes.  Ornella 
cries:  "Mila,  Mila,  it  is  the  mixed  wine, 
the  cup  of  comfort  that  his  mother  gave  him" 
Aligi,  as  he  is  unbound,  calls  still  more 
wildly  on  all  the  dead  and  the  forgotten  to 
curse  her,  and  Mila  answers  with  a  tortured 
cry:  "Aligi,  no,  not  thou.  Thon  shouldest 
not,  thou  must  not" 

Aligi  falls  in  his  mother's  arms.  The 
thongs  are  put  upon  Mila,  the  black  veil  on 
her  head;  the  black  standard  is  raised  once 
more,  and  she  is  led  away.  Ornella  calls  to 


[274] 

her:  "Mila,  Mila,  my  sister  in  Christ,  I 
kiss  thy  feet  as  they  go"  And  Mila, 
from  the  midst  of  the  mocking  throng,  is 
heard:  "  The  flame  is  beautiful,  the  flame  is 
beautiful." 


YC158993 


